Clockwork
by Willowfly
Summary: The paths we walk lead in unexpected directions. Not all are chosen. Few are kind. Within the world of clouded dreams and bitter reality, Leo discovers that if the pieces aren’t in working order, things tend to fall apart. Collab with Angelfeatherwriter.
1. Chapter 1: Dawn

Clockwork

By Angelfeatherwriter and Willowfly

_A/N (Willowfly): So here I am, back again with yet another project to spam the boards with. Lucky you? Perhaps, perhaps not. But this time I've got a double-whammy. A collaborative fic with my pal Angelfeatherwriter! Be prepared to be confused. Be prepared for darkness and graphic violence. Consider yourself warned, and enjoy!_

_(Angelfeatherwriter): While Willowfly sits over there and flatters herself, I'm going to list off a few facts. The chapters of this fic will be kept fairly short, as we both tend to ramble on in our descriptions. Also, since this is a collaborative effort, there may come a time when things do not mix properly. Please give critique where it's due._

_Without further ado, Clockwork._

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_"Each time dawn appears, the mystery is there in its entirety"_

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Chapter 1: Dawn

Sometimes, in the dark, he remembers. The soft sounds of sleep are like the buzz of night bugs, and he can trace their outlines in the pitch. Three bodies, the sleeping bodies of his brothers. Memory doesn't come to him like it should, and he knows it well. He chases them like moths in the dark, but they crumble in his hands like ashes. He wants so badly just to touch, to pin them down and listen to what they whisper in the dark.

The whispers pull like a tide, and something's telling him that this just isn't right.

But for now he'll lie awake and trace the plaster on the ceiling, the cracks that twist like living veins until they become paths to places he used to know. It's a road he's long forgotten.

The seconds and minutes and hours pass by without purpose. He relies only on the bloody orange that trickles through the buildings, the rivers of light winding around the urban mountains. They flow together like a sea, its glistening source pulling up slowly from behind a skyscraper, quenching the hungry world that once starved in darkness.

He finds himself pressing up against the glass, looking down at the ground that never sleeps—at all the streaks of color that wind on pave, moving with the lonely shadows of people, only handfuls now, creeping across the sidewalks in the gray half light. It flows together somehow, the light and the dark, all the sluggish grains of life that shift so restlessly beneath. The light touches his face. Something erupts, a force—primal and disheveled—rebels inside like swimming against the current, and he almost pulls away. It's strangely warm, but still he shivers. The cold of night still clings like the stench of iron.

Rings of haze creep across the glass along his palm print, his fingertips, from the rise and fall of his breath. But he can't decide where he'd rather be- gazing through the window into the new-lit sun, or like the light itself. He thinks it's freer there. Freedom, he used to know, but doesn't remember why. He thinks back to the whispers of his dreams but still, he can't remember a time when his life's purpose was for anything other than to serve.

"Leo..."

He blinks lazily for a moment, heavy lidded from the lack of sleep the nights bring, but doesn't turn. He can focus on his reflection like this, see the outlines of his eyes, his brother's stare behind him.

"You look like a psycho starin' out that window. You know that, right?"

He turns his head, the buzz of the new dawn breaking still ticks like clockwork in his veins. "I had that dream again," he whispers. The others are still sleeping. He can see Mikey's shape buried in the blankets on his cot. The warm light reaches over him to quench all the shadows. He turns his head to Raph again, bleary eyed. His brother is propped up on his elbows, staring sleep-dazed and mask-less, a knot in his brow.

"How much sleep did you get this week anyways? Ten hours? Fuck, Leo. You're gunna drive yourself crazier than you already are."

He turns his eyes away. The intensity in his brother's stare is something maddening and perplexing at the same time, and he doesn't think he can handle that. Not now. He lets out a sigh that snakes along the glass, shoulders falling as he presses his palms to it again. "I'm not crazy, Raph," he breathes. "I just... it feels like something's missing. I don't know what."

"Yeah, whatever," his brother sighs tiredly from behind. "Keep tellin' yourself that." The squeaking of the cot springs says he's lain back down again. They all seem to be giving up on him lately.

Only a moment of silence and breathing until the alarm goes off. Ten minutes until practice. Raph moans a furtive sigh and throws back his blankets, scrubbing at his face. Mikey's groaning under the bedsheets, peeking his head out of the mound.

"You up already?" He yawns greedily, stretching his arms over his head. "I hate that alarm."

Don hasn't even moved yet. He's still a motionless lump under a pile of blankets. Leo gives Mikey a smile before crossing the room, silently, just as he always has, and gently shakes his sleeping brother by the shoulder. "Hey Donnie, practice time."

In only moments the room is filled with movement, and Leo busies himself with gearing up. He pulls at the cloth that hugs tightly against his shell, wincing as the material begins rubbing against the crook of his neck. It's mostly broken in by now, but still tends to hack away at his skin like a layer of black sandpaper. He grabs for one of the yellow belts that line the broken-down radiator and ties it around his waist absently, the motions eased by years of practice. Massaging his knotted shoulder with one hand, he sweeps up his swords with the other and slips them into their sheaths.

They're all suited and dressed now, looking more alike than they ever have, if not for their expressions. Don hasn't said a word since he rolled out of bed, still staring hazily at the floor as they file out. Walking down the winding hall, Leo catches a look from Raphael. It feels a lot like doubt. But he's the leader, and Raph's always doubted his fair share. It had nothing to do with the dreams. Nothing.

The halls quickly fill as they walk, and it isn't long before he finds himself being pushed and bent to the will of the crowd that flows into the elevators and down the stairs. Leonardo can't stand times like these, the chaos of a faceless sea of people, the fact that the only things keeping him upright are the bodies pressing in from all sides. He often feels like he's lost track of his brothers, but a breath of relief when he finds them again—nobody else has shells.

Leo breathes a sigh when the pressure eases and they file into the dojo. He's glued his eyes to the tatami mats to distract himself, and a wave of something that feels like a memory prickles at the back of his brain. He shakes it free before he could be caught daydreaming.

The large room is already swollen with people, rivulets of black and yellow seeping into corners, shifting restlessly like hornets, stretching, laughing, exchanging playful jabs while some are silent, still thick and slow with sleep. He's watching them all with stark fascination. A group of them gathered near his right. A dark man smiles to a girl with a braid snaking down her back, the corners around gray eyes are creased like origami folds until they see Leonardo. His face falls. The others turn and stare coldly before shifting wordlessly to the far side of the room.

It's _segregation _every morning- during training, during meals, like the air they breathed was poison to their lungs. Every sunrise was like this—waking, entering the crowded dojo and the room shifts away like oil and water. Sharp glances in their direction remind them to keep their eyes low. The scorn in their gazes is tangible, real, and it rolls over his shell like dripping water. They're nothing. New. Inexperienced. _Disposable_. He can tell that there's something else, too. It feels a lot like hate.

And then the familiar stirrings of rebellion—he's far better than any one of them. Tension pulls at his muscles in his neck, guiding his eyes into those little silent challenges. Fights _have_ broken out over less. But no. He's not that stupid.

Still he can't help praying that the gray-eyed man would find him matched during sparring session.

The violent tremblings of a gong strike the room, and the people line up like ravens on a power line. Leonardo tries not to roll his eyes, but if they had any shred of intelligence, they would have been in their roll numbers long before the call even sounded.

Shiryou-Sensei is standing on the platform as the sound of the gong fades into the corners of the room. His skin is tough and creased like worn leather, and his expression equally commanding as the room takes order. Life has left most of his body crippled—he leans to one side like a crumbling pillar, and the brown belt sashed around his waist is lopsided, telling tales of arthritic, battle-worn hands. Eyes, bittered a bronzed yellow by age and strife, narrow at his vast army as if they're no more of a threat to him than a pack of wet kittens.

Cats, Leonardo believes, are the most dangerous when wet.

He doesn't waste his time with pleasantries, but stands, arms folded and unmoving, to order the first kata. "Kihon." His voice, full of gravel but as bold as the sound of the gong, fills the room to be repeated tenfold. "Kihon!" The dojo erupts with the first motions of morning practice.

It's a simple exercise, a series of strikes and blocks Leonardo remembers like it was engraved into his brain matter. Step, lunge, turn, strike, step, block. It was more like breathing than action, movement without thought—perfection. But not all can say the same. Don had been in a haze since wake up call... even before that. Leo tries to focus on the task at hand, when the room bows to end the exercise and being another. But it's hard to focus when Don's about two seconds behind the rest. He's lagging badly for some unexplained reason, and the lump in Leo's throat is telling him the calculating gaze his sensei had set upon his brother would not let the matter go so easily. Don knows this. His clumsy movements, usually so smooth and precise, bleed together in a desperate attempt to catch up.

Leo can tell when Don loses his hold on the rhythm. A single overstep causes his thin recovery to shatter, and he stumbles. It only lasts one second. The kata has ended and the bodies flow into a bow. Don is still a half a step behind, lifting his head with a sheepish grin under his sensei's scrutinizing stare.

"Enough," he begins harshly. The room freezes over like an intake of breath. Shiryou-Sensei is stepping down from his wooden platform, parting the black sea of ninja, eyes still fixed on Donatello. "You. Green one." His voice cuts like a knife. "You are sloppy even for a lower level. Apologize for your failure."

The others are crowded around the two of them now, looking on with expressions of disgust. Don's brothers look on worriedly, though. Leo exchanges a quick glance with Mike, swallowing thickly before turning away.

Don's head is bowed low, a hot flush sweeping across his cheeks. "I... I'm sorry," he croaks.

"Explain yourself," Shiryou says coolly, never looking away.

"I was tired. I'm sorry." He knows he practically reeks of embarrassment, and the nervous tremble in his voice definitely doesn't help his case. But he can feel all those eyes on him and this awful sinking feeling in his stomach that makes his palms sweat and his mouth go dry. He doesn't dare to look up.

"Are you aware that performance such as this could cost you your life in battle? That even one, small slip, one pitiful _excuse _of an attack could mean the end of you and your comrades?"

There was a pause. Shiryou would not leave without an answer.

Don stole a glance at his sensei's face, feeling his flush deepen. "Y-yes. I know... it's just that..."

"Silence," the man said sharply, pausing for a breath and clap of what he commands. "Then you are aware the severity of such sloppiness."

"Yes, Sensei." That knot in his stomach was getting bigger. He wanted to gasp for air.

"And you understand that it is my duty to weed out the weak for the better of the whole. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Let me tell you all a story we can learn from, then," he growled, raising his voice to the rest of the room. "The Samurai, celebrated warriors of the Emperor's army, had a practice of training that proved quite valuable in such cases. They would scour the countryside and cities in search of a worthy opponent. Then, they would duel. The winner would leave with his life. The loser dies in his dishonor."

Another pause. Shiryou circles Donatello like a hungry vulture. For now, Don's eyes are still glued to the tatami, trying to hide his horror. He swallows thickly, but it brings him no comfort.

"Then I ask you, ninja. Do you believe this practice to be of value in this case?"

A chorus of "Hai" echoes through the room, except for four. Leonardo, staring on helplessly, is forced to press a palm to his brother's plastron when he steps into the circle. Raphael, growling in his ear, his hands balled into fists. "They ain't gunna do it, are they?"

Leo closes his eyes for a moment, and prays.

"You are lucky the Master sees some value in you, or I would cull you like the animal you are," he says flatly, still circling. Leonardo feels his chest tighten, his eyes narrow, but he knows he must hold back like the hand that's pressed against his brother's chest. "But still, we have alternative methods to teaching the same lesson. Slader, if you will."

Slader. The sound of the name is like poison on the tongue—the minute it's uttered Leo knows his brother is in trouble. It's the huge gray-eyed man from before, locking eyes with him as he emerges from the circle. The wicked grin across his face speaks volumes. The sea of bodies parts without a second question, a hush of whispers fills the air like a sudden breeze.

Leonardo's eyes fall on the green belt wrapped around his waist—breaths draw and bodies stiffen around his, and he grits his teeth in silent outrage. Green. The dark color melts into his black outfit, and suddenly Don looks very small against him, with his bright yellow belt adorning his own waist. A higher rank. He was a superior to every person in that room except Shiryou-Sensei himself.

Donatello lifts his eyes to his opponent and swallows. The man just drips with strength. He's massive, and an upper-level ninja. This... is probably going to hurt. A lot.

"What the fuck is he even _doin'_ here?" Raph hisses, and Leo can feel the unbridled rage crawling beneath his brother's skin. "Ain't he supposed to be fuckin' around sippin' cocktails in that green belt dojo of his?"

Leo swallows, mouth dry as he scours his mind for a possibility. "A test," he decides, but his voice is gouged hollow as he stares at Slader's belt. "Shiryou-Sensei was going to—"

"Quiet!" Shiryou's voice, sharp and controlled, blasts through the dojo. His gaze locks with Leo's, and then Raph's, and then turns back to Donatello. He angles his crooked hand in a signal, and Leo finds himself pushed back by the crowds that move to the edge of the dojo. "Bow to your opponent, and do not disappoint me again."

A cold sweat prickles his skin as he bows to to the wall of a man. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of a single word.

"Begin."


	2. Chapter 2: Red Sky

_Red in the morning, sailors take warning._

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Chapter 2: Red Sky

The battle begins quickly once the courtesies are exchanged and Don immediately finds himself on the defense. His opponent, Slader, a hulk of a man with a Purple Dragon tattoo, swings a heavy arm in a punch intended for his head. But he ducks, feigns to the right in time to avoid another.

He's calculating. His concentration hasn't been up to par lately, but he's trying to do what he does best—use reason over brawn in the heat of battle. This man is quick for his size, though every strike is packed with brute strength. The confidence he carries behind each attack isn't feigned either. He's well-practiced and perfectly executed despite one major weakness.

Don ducks low under an attempted backhanded punch. He can tell even by the meager seconds of studying the spar has allowed him, that this man favors his upper body to a fault. Quickly, he snaps up into a kick that connects with the man's toned abdomen. He's solidly muscled, but still staggers backwards from the blow.

Don takes his opportunity, another jab under the man's chin with a quick upper cut lands squarely in its place, perfectly calculated. But not everything goes according to plan. The man regains his ground too quickly, planting his feet hard on the texture of the mats. There's a wolfish look in those cold steel eyes when Don realizes he's been caught off guard. A swift kick to the temple, sudden and completely unexpected, connects with a blinding force, turning the light a stunning shock of white before the ground is coming up to meet his face. Or is he falling? He puts out his hands to break the impact, but still ends up connecting, the whole world snapping dark.

"No! Leave him alone!" A voice squeals from Leonardo's right. A quick intake of breath and he finds Mikey's jumped out of the circle, planning to attack his brother's assailant. Mikey is a blur of raw emotion and energy, springing upward for a flying kick to the man's face. But Slader's too quick, grabbing hold of Mike's ankle and slamming him onto the floor from midair before the blow can connect.

Raph's growling louder now, charging in place of his brothers, and Leo finds his feet planted to the ground, his breath escaping him as the battle unfolds. "Raph, no! Mikey!" But neither would turn to listen. He could only look on, horrified.

Raph moves in for an uppercut as Mikey regains his ground. They exchange quick glances before charging in together, despite the calls of both Leonardo and Shiryou-Sensei.

"Don't you dare fuck with my brother!" Leo hears Raph hiss with a wince, but he's given up calling out from the sidelines. Slader looks just as determined to end this fight as Mike and Raph do. Even Shiryou steps down, looking on silently in the outer rim of the circle, mildly amused.

It doesn't take long for Slader to knock Raph on the ground like a rag doll with a blow to the chest. He doesn't stay down for long, but in the time it takes for him to regain his ground, Slader's already gone for Mikey.

Mike, with fists at the ready, crouches low and swoops in for an attack. Drawing back his fist for a punch to a pressure point on the man's thigh, his plan doesn't go as expected. Instead, the man's drawing his target leg back, and quicker than he can realize, Mikey's blinking away stars.

Raph's eyes immediately dart to his brother, kneeling on the ground cradling his jaw with a stunned expression. In an instant, Raph's back on his feet and Leo's finally let go of his resolve, taking a step into the empty circle.

"Enough!" The piercing cry, laced with venom is enough to strike the room into silence. Shiryou-Sensei steps stiffly into the circle, scanning the floor with a look of disgust as he side-steps Donatello's still motionless body. Raph takes the opportunity to console a now silently tearful Mikey. Leo's heart sinks to the floor when he notices Don's remained unmoving. "Enough of this pathetic excuse for a sparring match. You all disgust me. Leave my sight!"

The room empties in an instant, and Slader scans the room with a look of satisfaction. Leo's knelt by Don's side, attempting to gently rouse him into consciousness. A breath of relief when his eyes flicker open with a stifled moan.

A soft, humorless laugh catches his attention from above. Meeting those near-expressionless stone-cut eyes was enough to make his blood run cold.

"Maybe next time," the man laughs bitterly, his voice as flat and frigid as his eyes. He breaks the gaze, stealing a glance at Donatello, whose eyes had snapped closed again. "I hope to God you're a better challenge than your brothers, freak. It's been a while. Watch your back."

And with a toothy sideways grin, the man turns smoothly for the exit, never uttering another word.

"That fucking bastard," Raph breathes, his hand pressed against the back of Mikey's shell, helping him stand. He still has his hand cradling his aching jaw. In a flash of anger, Raph snaps at the man's retreating form. "Yeah, you better run, you son of a bitch."

Luckily the man just kept walking, throwing an icy glare over his shoulder before disappearing out the papered door.

"Raph, please! Get a hold of yourself. You're lucky Shiryou-Sensei didn't think of any other punishments today."

Raph's head couldn't have snapped up faster into that venomous glare if he tried. Mostly, it was reflex. "You want _me _to get a hold of _myself_?" He laughs, bitter sarcasm dripping from every word. "You're the one too busy walking around in that mindless daze of yours to even care if some bastard's mopping the floor with your own brother!"

Leonardo instinctively presses a protective hand to Donatello's chest. He still hadn't moved much since the room cleared, and his eyes are still closed. "Yeah, that's right, Raph. I don't care about my brother's welfare. That's my entire problem right there."

"You knew Don ain't been feeling well, and you didn't even flinch!"

"Fine! Then I'm heartless!" He spits, turning back to Don. He can't fight back the pang of cold guilt when his brother visibly flinches from the noise, sluggishly bringing his hand up to press against the swelling lump on his temple. "What the hell was I supposed to do?" He asks, more quietly this time, the volume failing to dull the bite behind his words.

"I don't know, think a' something! You're supposed to be leader, Leo. You got a hell of a lot more respect than any of us do around here… for some twisted reason. Open your goddamn yap for a change! How about that? Or maybe you were too busy starin' into space to notice."

"What makes you think," Leo hisses, "That they would to listen to me when even _you_ didn't? Do you realize that the match would have been declared _over_ if you had just stayed where you were supposed to!?"

Michelangelo, sitting just a few feet from a fuming Raphael, is too busy concentrating on the horrendous throbbing of his jaw to keep tabs on the argument. After stealing a look at a half-conscious Donnie still sprawled on the floor, he rolls his eyes pleadingly to Leo and foolishly opens his mouth. "Ugh... guysh..." He slurs, pressing his eyes closed at the piercing ache exploding through his jawline. He clamps his mouth shut and opts for an agitated moan instead, elbowing Raph unceremoniously in the side.

"Well somebody's gotta be awake enough ta have a backbone around here. Bet you just love it when they treat us like scum. Crazy bastard." Raph's hot-tempered glare switches from Leo to Mike without even shifting gears. "Yeah, what... oh."

Motioning to himself and Donatello, that expression was enough. Even without words it said _'Yeah, hey? Pay a little attention to your half alive brothers, please.'_

Raph only stares at Don and shrugs, offering a condescending half-apology to no one in particular. "Eh, whatever. We probably should take these guys to the infirmary. Think you can stick with us long enough ta handle that, _Fearless_?"

Leo doesn't respond. The dojo is silent, and he feels their sick amusement coiling around him like a vice. He doesn't dare meet Shiryou's eyes. He doesn't dare meet anyone's. Nothing awaits him there.

If this is what 'backbone' gets them, Leo wants nothing to do with it.

* * *

"Hey. _Hey_. You listening?"

"What?" Leonardo blinks as a rough hand presses briefly into his forehead, then flicks away to grab a pen stationed behind the man's ear. The human frowns and flips through a stack of papers fastened to his clipboard, tapping the tip of the pen against a chart.

"Your friend there has a grade four concussion."

"Grade four?"

The fear in his voice must have been tangible, because the man's features soften a little, and he lets the papers fall into place. "Not as bad as it sounds. He woke up a few minutes ago. The fact that he lost consciousness at all is the only thing making him a four-grader." He grins, wedging the pen back into the crook of his ear. "He might have had his bell rung harder than Liberty's, but he's far from out."

Leonardo can't really find anything to laugh about. He loses interest as the medic continues speaking, focusing on attempting to burn holes into the curtains that cut off half of the room. He knows Mikey and Raph are probably a few spaces over—he can hear Mikey's complaining muffled by his jaw, and Raphael's subsequent scolding. (_"Where the hell's the medic,"_ Leo hears, and would gladly hand him over if he could.)

"More importantly, what about _you_?" An eerily fascinated voice interrupts his thoughts, and Leo recoils in shock as his vision erupts into a blinding brightness. He clenches his eyes, colors swimming beneath the darkness of his lids, and pulls his arm up over his face. "Oh. A reaction."

The medic sounds distantly surprised. By the time Leo's eyes begin working, the papers are flipped over the edge of the clipboard again, and he's scribbling something onto a fresh chart. "Have any headaches? Nausea? Confusion on a regular basis?"

"What? I...what are you talking about?"

"I see," he murmurs sagely, and makes more marks on his paper. "What about loss of balance? Blurred vision? Have you—"

_"Hey! Would someone get over here an' shut him up already!?"_

The medic pauses, scratching something into the corner of the paper before lifting the pen away. "Kasumi will take care of them. I'm not done with you yet," he informs his unwilling patient, and points the silver nose in Leo's general direction. "Come by again later."

Leo has no idea what the hell just happened. At this point, he doesn't really care. Breakfast should be starting in the mess hall soon, and if they're late, they have to wait til lunch, but that's the last thing on his mind right now. "Uh...yeah, sure. Later," he lies. Medics always made him nervous, and why this one happened to take special interest in him did nothing to settle his worries. Instead, he changes the subject. "So he's going to be okay, right?"

The man gives him a dubious look, chewing thoughtfully on the clicker of his pen. "Didn't you already ask me that?"

Leo's laugh sounds a lot like a sigh. "Heh, did I?"

"Yes, you did."

That unsettling feeling in his stomach only spreads when the man starts scribbling fervently onto his clipboard. He straightens himself for a glance, but the man only moves away, throwing him a sideways glance. "Hey, what are you writing about me?" He asks, trying not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Mmm... personal notes," he hums without pausing.

Leo frowns. "You didn't answer my question."

"Of course I did. You asked me what I was writing, and I told you."

He's trying to keep his patience. He really is. But this man is _impossible. _He grits his teeth and tries to sound polite. "Sir, that's not—" he breathes, shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. If it's about me, it can't possibly be personal."

The man's smile only broadens over his clipboard. "My, aren't we conceited. Who said these notes have anything to do with you?"

Leo bites his tongue as the medic continues to scribble. But he's too busy working his fingers out of their fists to respond. As if he wasn't feeling humiliated enough before, this man decides to push it to a whole new level.

Three taps of the clicker against the metal clipboard and his eyes travel reluctantly back to the man's. He's staring back with a dangerous half-smile. "So," he says quickly, his lips twitching only slightly, "do you always have that little tic in your left eye?"

"No, I don't!" Leo bursts out before he can smother it. But his eyes widen and he clears his throat despite the medic's growing smile, continuing in a more collected voice. "And I'm not the problem here. There's nothing wrong with me, so stop asking me ridiculous questions and pay attention to my brother. _Please._"

The medic only grins while flipping through the pages of his clipboard. Leo only can let out a relieved sigh when the man finishes, tucking the notes under his arm with a thoughtful smile. "He'll be fine. I'll send him to your quarters as soon as he feels up to it."

"Hey, Leo." He almost jumps at the sound of Raph's voice. He's leaning against the door frame with Mikey standing closely behind, looking miserable with an icepack pressed to his swelling cheek."Good news. Nimrod here can't talk!"

He could only throw a sympathetic look at his very silent, very unhappy-looking brother.

In a flash the medic was across the room, softly prodding at Mikey's swollen jaw. Looking slightly offended, Mike opens his mouth to protest, only to find himself wincing a second later.

"Yep, for a few days until the swelling goes down. Until then you're going to have one very sore mouth."

"Best day of my life," Raph sighs happily, earning himself a bombardment of disapproving glares. He only shrugs and changes the subject before it can earn him another lecture on compassion. "Don's all right, ain't he?" All of a sudden he can't take his eyes off his brother's sleeping form laid on a cot pressed against the far wall and the impressive bruise forming at his temple.

"Yes, he should be fine," the medic chuckles. "Though he may not be feeling too hot when he wakes up. Still, in a couple days, he'll be fighting-fit."

"Sounds good enough to me," he breathes, moving his eyes almost painfully back to Leo's. "So you coming to breakfast, Fearless? 'Cause I don't plan on goin' hungry."

* * *

The cafeteria is far too bright to be pleasant. Everything is painted in a sterile white with cleanly polished steel counters and endless rows of tables, filled with almost deafening chatter. They're the second group to eat, with the white belts just before them, and the food is a mix of slowly cooling leftovers and the freshly-prepared. He has memories of his white belt days, of watching tired cooks roll out vats of cold soup and slide watery eggs onto polished counter tops. It was torturous then, when they were forced to stomach cold rice and half-frozen fish just because the massive stovetops were reserved for beginning the present day's meals. Back then there were many days Leo would decide it better to not eat at all.

Their privileges as yellow belts are few and hardly spectacular, but Leo can't help the lightness that overtakes him at the warm plates dotting the countertop. The detour to the infirmary had assured that most of the leftover food from the white belts had been taken, and now the omelettes and fish are bathed in an inviting steam. Already he can feel Raph increasing the pace towards the bamboo trays stacked on the nearest pedestal. Mikey makes a small, sad sound beside him, and he turns to see his brother gazing at the plates forlornly, clenching the ice pack against his face. He offers a sympathetic gaze—it's not often that they get to eat food fresh out of the kitchen, and with that jaw, he'd be lucky if he could open his mouth wide enough to get a pair of chopsticks in.

A tray is suddenly shoved into Leo's plastron, his own chopsticks clattering as they roll across the hard surface. Leo grunts, his fingers closing around the edges, and shoots up his gaze to find a mildly annoyed Raphael balancing two more trays in his free hand. "Stop holdin' up the line, psycho," he growls, and turns towards the counter. Still upset about the dojo incident, Leo decides, and pins the chopsticks against the tray with his thumb as he hands the third one to Mikey.

After everything that's happened in the span of a single morning, Leo discovers that he isn't really hungry. He chooses a bowl of rice with a raw egg on top, a small saucer of sashimi, and a cup of green tea. It looks pathetic on the comparatively huge tray, and he feels bad for not taking advantage of the opportunity, but his mind isn't on food. Not anymore.

Next to him, Raph is loading just about everything he can fit onto his plate; Leo is fairly sure that he doesn't even know what some of the food _is_, and will be in for a nasty surprise in a few moments. Mikey is hanging back with a tortured look on his face, eyeing each food item carefully before moving on to the next. After a moment he chooses a tamagoyaki bento and a rice bowl, though Leo can see his gaze piercing a pancake smeared with red bean paste as though burning it into his mind for eternity.

Silence weighs thickly as they eat. Raph digs into his food without shame or pause, his plates and saucers rapidly stacking over one another. Mikey, looking like he would love to do nothing but the same, simply swirls his chopsticks around the rice, occasionally glaring at the eggs as though regretting even getting them in the first place. Leo cringes as he watches his youngest brother halfheartedly bring a helping of rice up to his mouth, only to moan and set it back moments later.

His own food is plain and unappetizing, despite the warmth that flows into his hands when he grips the bowl. In his memories, cube-shaped omelettes and sticky rice have always existed, always met him in the early mornings and late evenings. And he's always eaten it without fail. Always ignored the voice at his throat, telling him to go to meals that never were. Freedoms that never break the surface, always swimming under sheets of ice and cold.

Tradition, like clockwork. _That_ is all there is.

Like many times before, his food turns to ashes in his mouth. Leo gives up and pushes it away. Raphael looks over, swallows a mouthful of something, and gestures towards Leo's tray with his chopsticks. "What? Not hungry?" His voice is slurred by the bits of food that remain in his mouth, and Leo is having trouble telling whether or not he's just trying to be irritating. He shakes his head, and his brother blinks at the half-eaten rice and untouched sashimi. After a moment the confused look dissolves, and he clicks the ends of his chopsticks together. "Can I have it then?"

Leo snorts. "Knock yourself out."

Not a moment later, his rice bowl disappears. Mikey sends Raph a look of absolute death as he tears into it. When Raph fails to even look at him, he huffs, crossing his arms over his plastron and focusing on some blank spot over Leo's shoulder.

Leonardo turns back to his tray, tightening his mouth at the saucer of raw fish. After today, just thinking about eating it is enough to turn his stomach. "Don't you want the sashimi, too?"

"No. That stuff tastes like shit," Raphael says pointedly. "You took it, eat it for—" He suddenly trails off, eyes snapping up to Leo, and then to somewhere behind him. "What do _you_ want?"

Leonardo spins around. "Oh."

Oh, no.

Oh _God_, no.

"Oh," says the medic, eyeing Leonardo's untouched sashimi. That dangerous grin spreads itself across his face again, and his fingers twitch as though he's still taking those damn notes. "So I can put you down for 'lack of appetite', then?"

Leo moans and drops his head into his hands, willing all of creation to _go away_. The world informs him that it's not going to happen: a slight rush of air as the medic takes a seat, the sound of his tray smacking the metal table, and the subsequent whispering that explodes around them.

If nothing else, the hushed voices pull Leo from his reverie. He meets their eyes now, challenges in their faces, but his is outlined with equal shock. Their expressions harden in stone, shifting from Leo and his brothers to the medic, back to each other, and finally to their plates as they'd chosen to suddenly erase this human from existence. Leo sees the girl with the braid in her hair, leaning forward in her seat—she almost looks lost, but the ice in her eyes doesn't allow it. Her gaze lingers past the others.

"Hey, Lock-jaw." Leo turns to see the medic staring at Mikey, who seems very appropriately frightened. "How's that face looking?"

Raph cuts in. "About as good as it usually does. Exactly _who's_ askin', anyway?"

"Tama Hiroshi." The man offers his name nonchalantly, shifting his gaze down to Mikey's tray, which is splattered with rice. His face twists sympathetically and he plucks a hot bowl of rice porridge off his tray. "I figured as much. Try this."

Mike smiles and hungrily takes the bowl, completely lacking the well-practiced caution Leo would have hoped his brother had learned in these eighteen years. No such luck, it seems.

"So, Space Case." There's an eager silence, and Leo almost winces when he finds he's the one being addressed.

"I'm _Leo_."

"Is that sashimi all you're having, Space_-o_?"

Mikey snorts back a laugh, managing to inhale a chunk of porridge along with it. Leo's frown deepens. That was a display he probably could have done without. "No, it's not," he mutters darkly. If there's one thing he hates, it's being mocked. But he doesn't react, just rearranges the fish in the saucer like nothing in the world could faze him. But Raph is tensed across the table, teeth locked into the ridges of his chopsticks with the first signs of a tight-lipped smile. Mikey, on the other hand, is busy beating his chest to dislodge that glob of porridge from his throat. Then again, he never had been one for subtlety.

Leo sighs. This day just couldn't end sooner. Too bad it was barely morning.

"Hey, are you all right?" It was Hiroshi again, tilting his head into his line of sight. Leo hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes.

"Yes, I'm fine," he says coldly, only with a hint of bite to it. There was the first signs of a headache blossoming between his eyes, but at least the man's face had sobered for now.

"I'm just teasing, you know... and you make it such great sport."

"Glad I could help," Leo grumbles, forcing himself a bite of sashimi.

Another moment of tension and Raph finally breaks in. There's anger in his voice this time. "Okay, spill it. Is this your idea of a sick joke? 'Cause last time I checked, nobody's laughing."

"I don't know what you—"

"I bet your buddies put you up to this. Go sit with the freaks an' see if they'll eat you for breakfast instead, huh? Well we ain't buyin'. Go sit where you belong, asshole."

Hiroshi sinks back in his chair for a moment, but he's still brave enough to look Raph straight in the eye. "Normally I sit in the infirmary during meals. People here don't treat you and I much differently, to tell the truth. Today, I thought I'd try something new."

"Just let him stay, Raph," Leo sighs. At this point, he really could care less what was happening. The sleepless night before is starting to catch up with him fast. He's more interested in thinking of ways to work a nap into his busy schedule than getting put off by some guy eating with them on a whim.

He had been busy grudgingly picking off the last of his sashimi when yet another shadow appeared at the edge of their table. This time it's just a boy, barely fifteen, if even that. The look of fear in his eyes is palpable, visibly flinching when Leo meets his gaze. "Uh..." His voice cracks, grabbing the others' attention. The poor boy wrings his hands, taking a step backwards to put more space between them. "Are you Leonardo?"

Leo nods slowly, afraid to scare the boy off even breathing too hard. "I am."

"The Master requests a meeting with you and your brothers at nightfall. He... didn't say why."

Ah, so this boy is a messenger. He probably started out as some street punk scraped off the streets not too long ago. Not only is he American, but he talks with a Brooklyn accent. Still, the boy's presence does little to ease the new worry his message brings. Ninja only go to see the Master for two reasons, and two reasons only: missions and discipline.

Leo nods grimly. "Thank you. We'll be there."

As the boy hastes a bow and retreats, Leo can't shake the sinking feeling that turns his stomach cold. After this morning's little display, there's a good chance they'll be paying the price for their sloppiness in the near future. He can only pray fate will smile upon them in this one. He's seen enough ninja with missing limbs to know the consequences of the latter.

"I'm going to take a nap," he breathes faintly. His head buzzes with activities that no longer exist, dropped from his mind like a cut beehive. A meeting with the Master guarantees a cleared schedule. He stands up. As though on instinct, his brothers move to join him. Their eyes say that they want to be anywhere but here, where mirthful spite is written in the air around them. They fight through the words, silencing them with the soles of their feet and the tiled floor.

"Hey, Space." Leo pauses, turns around. Hiroshi's expression is grim, but a smile is etched onto his face as he gives a slight wave. "Good luck."


	3. Chapter 3: Sunrise

_"We can only appreciate the miracle of a sunrise if we have waited in the darkness."_

--------~--------

Chapter 3: Sunrise

The room is blissfully quiet compared to the endless noise and movement of the mess hall. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like part of a herd of cattle migrating from one routine to another. Practice at six, breakfast at seven, and then free time until afternoon check-in. Most ninja have jobs outside the compound. Others work for the Master himself to pass the time. Even fewer have families to return to.

Leonardo and his brothers have nothing in the outside world. The routine, the walls, the carefully disciplined monotony—it is all they're allowed to know. But he knows exactly why. He's reminded every day of his life.

He closes the door behind him with a sigh, snuffing out the sliver of light that poured into the dark room from the hallway. Inside, everything is still and the curtains are drawn, giving only hints of the afternoon sun setting in. He doesn't bother flicking on a lamp. He can make his way just fine in the dark, especially when the cool bed sheets are practically screaming his name.

But a shadow catches his attention, a soft flicker of light spilling in from behind the fluttering curtain. He watches his brother for a moment, propped up in his bed in the far corner by the window, shell braced against the wall. He's fingering the curtains with an almost startling intensity. He doesn't turn away when Leo crosses the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. It almost hurts to break the precious silence. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, just a headache," Don breathes. He still hasn't even spared a glance in Leo's direction. He brushes the curtain away for a moment, letting the warm sun spill in, winces at the light, then lets it fall back into place. "I don't know what happened back there. How could I misjudge him like that?"

His eyes are pleading now, finally turned away from the window. But Leo can't think of anything to say. He can't brush it off like an honest mistake because what Don had done this morning was sloppy, and it would have cost him his life in the battlefield. But Don never misjudged, never miscalculated. It was disturbing to see him this way, so unfocused.

His brother is turned to the window again, brushing his fingers against the fabric. "Is this what it's like for you? It is, isn't it."

Leo's first instinct is to deny. But this isn't Raph he has to prove himself to. His mouth hangs open wordlessly before the catch until he forces himself to close it, breathe, and pull his eyes away. His hands are folded in his lap, and he traces their outline in the dim light. Don couldn't possibly think he'd become _that _sloppy, _that _distracted…

"It's almost disorienting," Don whispers, leaning his head against the wall, "like you're supposed to be somewhere else, but you're here, and things remind you of… other things." He breathes, and rolls his eyes back to the window, fiddling with the curtain again. "God... I just don't know. I can't even explain it correctly. I don't think I've ever been this confused in my entire life."

Leo knows he should say something, _anything_, but he only clenches his fists a little tighter, grits his teeth a little harder. He directs his gaze towards the curtains that ripple with the aftereffects of disturbance. Don's nudge was small, brief, but light still filters through the quivering seams, and Leo begins to wonder whether the curtain is blocking anything at all.

"You feel it, too. I can tell."

He tears away to meet Don's gaze. Purple splashes across his brother's olive skin, hugging the edge of his mask-less eyes—that feels familiar, too, and Leo turns away almost as quickly, burying his face in his palms. The darkness there is safer.

"You always look so tired. And sometimes, it's like you're not even here. I mean, you stare out that window for _hours. _Just this morning I saw you staring at the floor in the dojo like you were trying to burn holes in it."

"I was meditating."

Don snorts. "Sure you were."

The silence that follows is wound like a chord, but Leo's too stubborn to break it. _This is ridiculous. _That's all he can think of. It wasn't a problem. Not like this. They were only dreams, misplaced feelings, distraction, weakness. In the dark, all he can hear is his own breathing against his palms.

"Oh, come on. You know you can't fool me. When was the last time you even slept? Two... maybe three days? And naps don't count."

He doesn't pull his hands from his face, only whispers "Raph's right... I think I'm losing my mind."

Movement, a rustle of fabric and the weight upon the mattress shifts until Don's sitting beside him. "Leo... what I'm trying to say is that I _don't_ think you're crazy."

"How?! How could you not?" Leo snaps. The volume is enough to make Don wince. "I can't focus, I can't sleep, I don't even feel like I live in reality anymore! I have no idea what's..." He stops himself mid-sentence, breathes, collects. "What's happening to me?"

There's a hand on his shoulder, but he's too embarrassed to look, only concentrates on his breathing. "Leo, it's okay. If anyone should be beating themselves up over this, it's me. You aren't the one who made a complete fool of themselves in the dojo this morning. You can't control this. I understand."

"But I should. I should be able to control it," he says firmly. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"I hear it," he whispers, pressing his palm against the curtain. The glass is warm beneath it. For once, he doesn't want to pull away, even when his fingers clench and fold the fabric around them. "The city. I know what it sounds like."

"Sounds like?"

"Freedom."

Their windows don't open.

"We'll figure this out, okay?" A pause. "Okay?"

No answer. Leo's entranced with the window again, and a sick feeling settles in Don's stomach. Something's wrong, dead wrong, and whatever is, its hold on his brother is only getting stronger. And if his predictions are correct, it's only a matter of time before Don loses himself too. "I'll talk to the medic in the morning. He seemed nice, and he wanted to see me again tomorrow anyways. Maybe we can get you something to help you sleep."

Leo reacts this time, sliding his eyes to Don in an almost horrified glance, but his gaze is back to the window before Donatello can even wonder.

Don lets out a tired sigh. "We'll talk about this later, okay? Maybe when my head isn't pounding along with my heartbeat." With a small groan, he crawls back into bed and collapses face-first into the pillow. "Just... get some rest. We'll both feel better if we just get some sleep."

Leo doesn't move right away. He sits, watching the rise and fall of his brother's shell slow into a rhythm. When he finally crawls into his own bed, his heavy eyes finally close, and the noise finds his dreams.

He hears the people, the humans, with their clicking heels on sidewalk in a sea of faces, faces that belong in their pressing crowds, garbled music that flows from metal boxes gliding down the pavement. The even happier ones, the incomprehensible joy of youth and freedom, the fleeting patters of sneakers; water spraying from red geysers and shrieks of laughing children under a hot sun, a rope stretched wide and spun. The brightness in their eyes and laughing faces, reaching towards the sky with outstretched hands.

And the young, tattered man on the streetside, a guitar loose in his hands, fingers slipping up and down the strings and his case flipped open on the sidewalk. The happy ones drop offerings as they pass. The happier ones stay and sing and dance to a faceless tune, watch the metal boxes and grains of sand as they dribble past, the infallible beat of life, light spilling over bodies, happiness written on their faces.

This kind of happiness is familiar, even if he's never seen it.

Here, in this place, smiling, kind humans don't exist. Instead they're solemn-faced, disciplined. The sea of faces that flood the halls move to a different rhythm, their feet silent as they strike the ground, their mouths tightened beneath dark veils.

Leonardo spreads his arms across the old mattress, sleepless, listening to his fake memories—of the clacking and laughing and strumming, and of their hearts, beating like clockwork in the sun.

* * *

Consciousness crashes over like a morning storm, drenched in confusion and fog. There's a hand gripping his shoulder, warm like ice, his mind buzzes with overdue sleep—tries to moan, only breathes through a dry throat. The jolting pauses for a brief moment—voices, distant and blurred, fill the air above his head. Something smacks against his face, and he snaps into the waking world.

"Up an' at 'em, Fearless."

The mist at the edge of his vision surges as he struggles to sit up, blinking furiously at the faded black sheets beneath him. He feels groggy and sick, like chains are draped over his arms and legs, tethering him to a world he no longer visits. He pulls his gaze up, passes it over to where Raphael is frowning at him. Something like an apology swims behind his expression, but as Leo's eyes fill with awareness, it slips into the rushing tides of annoyance.

"Times'it?" he slurs, pushing a palm into his eye.

"Meetin' time," Raph answers simply, looking distracted. His attention shifts over to where Mikey is attempting to rouse Don (who, coincidentally, looks like he got hit by the same truck).

"Come _on_, guys," Donatello moans, gripping his head. Mikey looks sympathetic but doesn't say a word, only rests his hand on his brother's shoulder. "This is like the fifth time. Will you just let me sleep?"

"Hey, that Hiroshi guy said to wake you up every hour," Raph growls, crossing his arms. "What, you _wanna_ die in your sleep? Get up, we gotta go."

Leonardo is sleepy, confused, and decidedly lost, but the mention of Hiroshi manages to sever his ties to the unconscious. He stiffens briefly, then edges to the side of the mattress. The queasiness ebbs when he stands, and he smooths away the folds in his costume. Raph has moved away to where Mikey is helping Don to his feet.

As soon as the door is opened, Leo is hit with the hatred that burns his chest. He almost steps back, away from the sneering humans gathered about their room like moths drawn to a fire. The worst part is the silence. They fail to even flinch as he reacts, their mouths dissolved under layers of black cloth, but their eyes speak twisted delight, humor at watching him squirm under their combined gazes.

The anger doesn't have time to awaken. Raphael is suddenly pushing past him, hunched over like a feral animal, fury written in his expression.

"What," he snarls, "the fuck are you doin' here?"

A ripple in the crowd, unseen but tangible. Their masks crinkle with hidden smiles. The largest one steps forward, gray-eyed, that same arrogant swagger from back in the dojo. "I'm not looking for a fight, if that's what you're worried about. It was pathetic enough the first time." His voice is graveled and torn, but carries itself with smooth precision. "Just getting one last look at you before I lose my chance."

Leo isn't impressed. Raph really isn't impressed.

"It's kinda sad. Shiryou-sensei told me the Master had high expectations for you freaks. I've heard the stories. You're supposed to be some kind of hot shots_. _Rumors say you even gone up against the Master and held your own."

Slader crosses his arms over his chest, fully content to tower over them while he waits for an answer.

"You don't know a damn thing," Raph huffs.

Leo shoots him a warning look before he can take a threatening step forward. "We've never even _seen _the Master before. I don't know what you're talking about."

Slader only laughs, dry and humorless, as the black clothed peanut gallery exchange uneasy glances. "I have connections in higher places than you, scum. I know more than you think," he scoffs, "and if the rumors are true, it's too bad our little sparring match was so disappointing. It's been a while since I had a good fight."

Not even Raph had a retort to offer. The scene back at the dojo had been embarrassing at best. In truth, Slader had every right to be cocky.

"You might as well be kissing your asses goodbye," the man taunts. "I heard there's a mission going down. And knowing the Master, he's probably sending you freaks in kamikaze."

A pit of dread drops in Leo's stomach like a lead weight. Slader was an arrogant fool, he could tell that much from just looking at the way he held himself. He'd seen the Purple Dragon tattoo on his arm in the dojo. But still, he seems to be telling the truth. "How do you know all this? Who's telling you?"

The man only shrugs, obviously grinning under his mask. "Like I said, friends in high places." The group of men were filing back into the hallway, leaving only Slader lingering in the doorway, that same hostile smile still spread across his face. "And if you do end up living through this," he sneers, "your ass is mine."

* * *

"You okay?" Leo hears Don's voice from beside him, and turns towards his brother. "You look...dazed."

"I slept," Leo mutters. Almost as an afterthought, his eyes trail to where Mikey and Raph walk in front of them. "Through them."

"Be grateful," Don sighs, and would shake his head if he wasn't so sure that it was an infinitely bad idea. "Between those two waking me every hour, I must have gotten only three."

Leonardo tries to smirk, but he can't. He's a notoriously light sleeper. Overtired or not, there was no reason for him to let his guard down so completely. He'd been hoping he would be able to think more clearly after a couple hours of rest, but things were only becoming more muddled. They were almost at the Master's floor, the elevator slowly climbing up the impressive height to the top floor of the building.

The whole way up, there were alarms going off in his head. When the doors finally slide open, a burst of panic settles in and it takes every ounce of Leo's self-control to keep himself from running in the other direction. They're close, so close, but he's almost certain that if the Master had plans for the four of them, they wouldn't be meeting their demise like Slader had promised. Still he can't overcome the sense of dread that grows with every step.

It was almost... familiar. Frighteningly so.

"Don?" He croaks, wincing at the tinge of fear that had crept into his voice. "We've... never met the Master before, right?"

"No... Why would you ask that?"

The uncertainty in his brother's voice does nothing to soothe his worries. But still he turns his eyes away from Don's pressing gaze. "No reason. Never mind."

"Don't let Slader get to you," he says with a weary smile. "He's just a bully. He's trying to get under your skin by fabricating crazy stories."

"Yeah... you're right," Leo murmurs, still disturbingly unconvinced. But for now, he doesn't have time to dwell. The hallway they'd been traveling, lit by candle light instead of the usual fluorescent bulbs and decorated with luxurious burgundy tapestries, had abruptly ended at two massive wooden doors. A pair of guards stand at either side, their black doji slashed with crimson, peering eerily from underneath large straw hats. Their cold gazes make Leo's skin crawl as they pull back the heavy doors and silently usher the brothers inside.

The room within is dark, lit only by the candlelight that fills the room with shadows. A mountain of a man whose size could rival even Slader's roughly escorts them in. Leonardo can't help eyeing the Dragon tattoo snaking down his massive arm, and can swear the man is growling lowly while they walk. That icy ball of dread only grows colder. Every step forward sets off almost deafening alarms in his brain. Every second that ticks by is a battle with his own instincts screaming to turn back, fight, do _anything_.

But he has nowhere else to run.

Still, he can't shake off Slader's words, or the terrible feeling that they're all walking to their execution.

Leonardo's hands are balled into fists at his sides when they reach the edge of the platform. His brothers' tight-lipped expressions say that for once, he's not alone. They're brought before the Master where he sits in seiza behind a low mahogany table, his sharp features touched by the firelight. The man refuses to acknowledge his guests with even a glance, but continues to write upon the table.

"The turtles to see you, Master," booms the giant man, who takes a step backward into the shadows once again.

There is something fierce behind the Master's eyes—cold and hungry like a stalking predator. His hard expression doesn't change when he commands them all to kneel.

And they do as they are told without question, for the Master's word is law.

Daringly, Leo steals a look at his brothers. Don's visibly paled in the low-light, his hands are shaking even as they rest upon his knees. Mikey swallows hard, and Raphael stares blankly ahead. Sometimes, it is hard to tell whether his boldness is unwavering, or just a better mask for fear.

"I have been informed that your performance during morning practice has been far from satisfactory," the Master begins, finally abandoning his writing. He sets his pen upon the table and folds his hands placidly. His voice is soft, but cold as his darkened eyes.

There's a suffocating silence that follows, and Leo's blood has turned to ice water in his veins. The walls are closing in and the sound of breathing from every person in that room is deafening. The huge man mutters something, cracks his knuckles in the shadows and Leo catches himself counting every one of his heart beats. The next one could very well be his last.

"We apologize, Master_," _he finally breathes, bending into a low bow on the floor. The weight of the silence had finally crushed the last of his resolve. "We can do better. I promise—"

"Silence!" The Master snaps, rising from his table. Slowly, he walks to the edge of the platform, content to look down upon his subjects with his hands behind his back. When he speaks again, his voice has regained its solemn tone. "You have no idea how expendable you are to me. This behavior is unacceptable." The Master pauses to throw a warning look in the giant man's direction. He immediately stops cracking his knuckles and steps back into the shadows. "Otaka Shiryou sent me a report this morning detailing every one your disgusting inadequacies. He recommended all four of you be _removed_ for the dishonor you have bestowed upon the clan. "

He pauses there, moving along the length of the platform to the other side. "I am inclined to agree."

The little challenges in his skin flutter upwards, seizing the corners of Leonardo's mouth. His fingers tighten their grip at the skin along his kneecaps. But he knows feelings of rebellion would not serve well here. He feels the Master's gaze pass over his brothers in a straight line. For a moment it seems to lingers on him. Leonardo dares to look up; the cold eyes hold his own for a heartbeat, then turn away. They glow with an invisible conflict, so familiar—he feels, for the first time, that it may have actually happened.

Leo has seen those eyes on Raphael every day.

"Donatello." The name turns to disgust in the Master's voice. He feels his brother seize up beside him, breath hitching audibly. Something twisted swims onto the Master's expression, then slips into a stone-faced rage as he continues. "Give me one good reason why you should be allowed to continue on after this disgraceful performance."

Any answer will be taken as either defiance or ignorance. No words can heal the damage done. Donatello's erratic shaking has flowed to a weak trembling now, the skin of his arm like frost against Leo's own, eyes pulled into the stakes on the wooden platform. The silence is threatening, but Don's retreated in his own world, and the Master is looming over them with tight-lipped fury.

"Master. I am responsible for those in my squadron." A feeling of death chills his insides as the gaze flicks to him, hardened to steel in its impatience. The blow is softened by the equal attention of his brothers, the gratitude—and fear—of Donatello. Leonardo hesitates only a moment, and the Master, his face now sobered, steps down from the platform. "If you wish to punish anyone—"

The strike chokes away his words. His vision reels to the shoji doors lining the walls, the side of his face buzzing madly with pinpricks. The sound of it echoes through the bare room, along with his breathing, the heaving lungs of his brothers. Deathly quiet. He turns back, catching the gleam of a golden gong lying against a far wall, and settles his gaze on the wood beneath him.

"You will speak when addressed, _beast_."

The second he feels the air shift, dread settles in his stomach. Raphael shifts from where he kneels, rebellion written in the fire behind his eyes. "You don't know shit!"

The temperature suddenly rises in the room and Raph struggles under Mikey's hold on his shoulders. Mike whimpers like a terrified child, wide-eyed.

"_Raph!" _Leo hisses over the sound, but it does nothing to ease his brother's temper.

"Don't you _dare_ touch him!" He seethes, finally batting away Mikey's hold on him. But still, he remains kneeling.

"Enough!" The Master bellows, cutting through the chaos like a knife. "You petulant children! One order, just one _word_ to my ninja and they will attack. I could disembowel each one of you alive as the others watch! Is that what you desire?!"

Silence, hot and suffocating, is their only response.

The Master's voice is nearly a whisper when he speaks again, emptied of all emotion. "I will consult my advisor on the matter. Move, and I assure you, my ninja will not hesitate to carry out my threats."

A flutter of fabric, and the Master disappears behind a massive curtain draped over the far wall. No one moves an inch, but Mikey lets out a heavy sigh that sounds far too much like relief.

"Why did you do that?" Leonardo's rage is hushed by the whisper he's forced to speak in. His eyes never leave the curtain, but the glare is meant whole-heartedly for Raphael.

"Same as you, Fearless." Raph mutters, but there's a brightness in his voice, a dizzying sense of relief. "Someone's gotta speak up around here. If we're gunna die, might as well put up a fight."

Leo doesn't even want to breathe.

The silence is heavy, vibrating in the room as loudly as the strike did. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours. The curtain still sways with the Master's rough push.

The tingling in his face dies away just as the curtain parts again. The Master's face is controlled, held more tightly than when he left, and there's an uncomfortable fluidity in his movements. Leo's head ducks further as he approaches, and his brothers do the same. Yet Raph's gesture of respect feels more like a challenge.

"My advisor has recommended that you be culled where you sit." His words flow as if it were the most unsurprising statement ever said. Then a gleam in those steel eyes. "You are fortunate that my plans do not allow me to rely on such... drastic measures. Instead, I am sending you upon a mission of great importance."

It can't be that easy. The Master's hands fold behind his back he and steps down from the platform once more, moving to the gong that hangs by a single metal bar. He studies the tao symbol stretched up the length of the golden surface, then turns towards Leonardo and his brothers. A wave of disgust passes over his face. Leonardo almost wonders.

The Master spins around and slams the gong with his heel.

Leo's next breath feels like fire, frost, searing the insides of his throat and lungs, poisoning his blood, acid in his veins, pulsing—something like a scream rips from his mouth and he doubles over, leans into his palms, into the ground, the wood floor rising up and flooding his eyes, eyes that screw tight with pain. He hears the ragged moans of his brothers, feels Donatello's body convulsing against his, wants to help—can't. Can't, can't think, cold flows hot in his blood.

The sounds. He hears the sounds of the people and the sights of the city behind his lids. They screech as they flow by his head, pulled from thought like punches, moving the air around them, the flutter of black bandana tails, blue, red and purple and orange. Black. Strumming and dancing and ropes stretched wide fall out to the breaths of the fighting and the fought and the killed. Dead.

He watches the last of it drain away—a cityscape in the sunlight.

When he breathes again, the sun is gone. He leans upward and watches the platform. The Master is back in his place.

The Master looks pleased.

"Now tell me... can I trust you with this mission?"

Leonardo bows, places the flats of his palms on the ground, echoed by three more.

"Yes, Master Shredder."


	4. Chapter 4: Eclipse

_"Truth is often eclipsed, but never extinguished."_

_-------~-------  
_

Chapter 4: Eclipse

Leonardo cannot count the number of times he wished to be in the city, in the air where the freedom is. Now that he's here, he cannot feel it.

A part of him sways with the city as it crawls around them, filled with life now, the spreads of color trickling across the pavement like sand washing over tides. He watches the metal boxes, too, as they line up and stop, lights spraying into the handfuls of colored dust that cross in front of them, and then their rumbling away and falling into the streaks of faceless clamor.

He pauses to shift his weight, feeling the tug of his bandana tails as the wind stirs. Leo has never encountered wind. It pushes across his face, flinging shreds of black into his vision, the taut whipping scoring across his ears like fists against a punching bag. It feels a lot like fighting, he thinks, the hiss of air as it swirls around your arms, your head.

He breathes a sigh and adjusts his grip on the spire. It's been warmed by the sun that's now long gone, fallen over the urban mountains, only whispers of red and orange hanging on the edge of darkness. Lights flicker in some of the mountains, shadows dancing in the yellow haze. He can't think to what they do.

A swallow, and the lingering gaze, hungry now, at the streets. Air. Wind. The fluttering of his bandana tails. The roar of neon lights, of sirens, of music as it blares out of buildings. The screams of tires. The screams of something else.

Leonardo was wrong.

The city is silent.

It sits like a static in the back of his brain, impenetrable, filling his ears with a faceless noise. It's a block, a wall he cannot climb, pushing him in one direction. The mission. They must complete the mission.

Rooftops serve as a highway to the shadows, stretching away from the touch of light. The texture of tarred ground bites at the soles of naked feet, find the edge, leap. It's always a leap of faith here in the dark, always a silent prayer and a surrender. _Let go, _it whispers. Let go.

Leonardo finds the ledge, and his stomach drops until he finds the ground again.

There's still a part of him that's fighting against this. He can feel it tugging at his bones, grip slackening, fading into nothing with every step he takes.

The mission. They must complete the mission.

Their destination is ingrained in their brain matter, instinct. But it's that same strange sense of familiarity that keeps him pushing onward, sprinting the endless miles to wherever it may lead.

_Home. _The Master had ordered them to go home, and kill whoever they found there. The word was foreign on his tongue, in his mind. The walls and winding halls of the Shredder's building had never felt like home to him. But wherever they were going now tugs him on with a visceral reaction, pulls at his insides with a sense of longing he could never explain.

Donatello had told him he wasn't crazy. Donatello had _believed _him. But looking at his brother's face now, there is no sign of it. As they run, each face is drawn in taught determination. No sense of longing could ever stand in their way.

The mission. They must complete the mission.

_Go to your home and seek out whoever dwells there. Slaughter them on sight. No exceptions._

It's their final chance for redemption. If they fail, death will surely find them in the end. So he lets go. Bit by bit, he lets go.

They reach the alley they're looking for, scaling down the fire escape to the manhole cover. By the time four shadows slip into the bowels of the sewer, longing is just a weak silhouette, swallowed in the maze of dank water. Instinct. He can smell home like the smell of fear on prey. Wordlessly, they follow the pull, drawing them in like a tide.

When they reach the wall, Donatello knows the right lever to pull. The bricks split open wide like a cracked rib cage. The cavern within is dark and silent, stretching open like a great, endless maw. The smell in the air has changed, its feel. Someone dwells within these caverns.

"My sons?"

The voice rips through the quiet, bodiless and worn with age. All four shadows jump and turn to the small figure approaching from the darkness, leaning on a walking stick. "Oh, my sons! Praise Amida you have returned to me! I had feared—"

The air shifts, a gasp for breath. The old rat steps backwards, horror striking his expression. Leonardo draws his swords.

"What has happened?" The prey breaths, backing away from the four figures approaching, weapons drawn, no hint of recognition in their eyes. These are not his sons. "Raphael, Leonardo, _please," _he begs, finding his back against the cold stone wall. "Michelangelo!"

He knows their names, calls upon them with fear and fondness, but still they advance. Still, they have a mission.

The rat assumes a defensive pose, gripping his staff like a weapon, but does not attack. "Donatello... my sons... there is a dark presence that surrounds you. Hear me. You do not want to do this."

But they do, they must. It is what the Master wishes.

He is the only master they have ever known.

Leonardo gives the signal to attack, and they charge the rat at once, weapons swung for lethal blows. Honor has nothing to do with it, only the mission. Kill, no matter the expense.

But the rat surprises them with his agility, dodging a strike from Don's bo staff meant to cave his skull, a swing of the sai that could rip open the abdomen like a hot knife through butter. The katana, meant to sever his head from his shoulders in a single deft movement. He dodges them all without striking a single blow, and finds himself across the cavern from the fray. His sons turn, expressionless save for lethal determination, and attack again.

The nunchaku, swift and unpredictable in the hands of Michelangelo, move for blows to the skull and hip. Bone-shattering, if they could connect, but they do not find their mark. Instead the rat sees it all. He knows their attacks like they were his own. Every attempted blow, every feign, every block-- they were written into each of his assailants, each of his sons in his own handwriting. Never could he have predicted they would be used against him in this way.

He's never seen such blood-lust in Michelangelo's eyes. As the nunchaku wraps and catches around his wooden staff, the cold of his son's gaze is as good a weapon as any. "My son..." he whispers, "who has done this to you?"

There is no time for an answer. A shift in the air and the hiss of metal tells him to duck into a roll as a thrown sai embeds itself in the wall behind him. As he rolls, he rips the weapons from Michelangelo's hands and sends them skidding across the concrete floor. But Raphael is there, tearing his sai from the concrete and charging, teeth bared, the gleam of steel.

Splinter is on his feet again, avoiding every furious swipe of the dagger points. A false step, and one of the tips slices a gash in his robe. "I do not want to hurt you, my sons," he pleas, now dodging another attack from the bo staff from behind. They're boxing him in from every direction, and his options are running short.

He knows what he has to do.

In a flash, he leaps from the fray, using Raphael's shoulders as a lift, and flipping behind his son. Before either one can react, he strikes a vein at Raphael's throat. Raphael breathes a ragged gasp before crumpling to the floor, sai clattering as they strike the ground.

The rat breathes disbelief. The others are unconcerned, ignoring their brother's writhing form, weapons at the ready.

Michelangelo is next, swinging the nunchaku at the old rat's skull. But Splinter had seen the terrible bruises that had blossomed along his jawline, and as much as it sickens him, he uses the weakness to his advantage. He sweeps to the right, seizing Michelanglo's wrist as it thrusts past him, the nunchaku now uselessly flailing beside his head. A quick uppercut to the jaw, and Michelangelo is down, clenching his face and howling through the chaos.

Splinter's heart aches for what he has done. Every muscle in his body, every fiber of his being fights against this madness. His fist quivers, not through pain, from the impact with Michelangelo's swollen skin. But he's also fighting for his life. Whatever had taken hold of his sons was determined to be his end.

The only thing that keeps him going is the constant reminder that these are not his sons.

Donatello is slow. Splinter sees the unusual lag that comes with each attack, the hungry tiredness that had settled behind his eyes. He'll have to work quickly, while still avoiding the twin blades of Leonardo's katana. Another attack from the blades is meant to decapitate him; a swing of the bo means to take away his footing. He ducks under the steel arc and slides across the stone floor. But he's not fast enough.

A quick swing of the bo comes to connect with an old injury, the brake in the humerus inflicted long ago by the creature known as Drako. It lights a fire through him, and the old rat clenches his jaw, eyes snapping shut for only a moment. He will not cry out. He will not let these shells that were once his sons take his life in this way. He only wishes it had never come to this.

Ignoring the pain that races up through his hip like razor blades, he reels around behind Donatello and strikes the dark bruise that had formed on his temple. Without a sound the turtle staggers and collapses into unconsciousness, his bo striking the concrete and rolling away from his unmoving body.

That leaves only Leonardo.

The eldest moves through his fallen brothers with languid footsteps, the tips of his swords screeching, scraping the ground at his sides. Something harsh swims in his expression, but Splinter cannot see behind the white slits that swim in a sea of black and green. The ghost of his son stops as he draws near, pulls one arm up, the shrill of metal against concrete and then air as the sword hovers between them.

"You know our names. How?"

Splinter feels his heart twist. The voice that he hears is not his son's. It sounds of ice and flurries of snow, its edges worn like a blade not polished, exerted past its usage. Something brittle hangs in the air, and Splinter feels that if he reaches out to touch it, it may shatter in his grasp.

He only fears what lay behind it.

"Leonardo. My son." He dares not to take a step forward, but clasps his hands over his walking stick, desperately searching for any shred of the Leonardo he knows. "Please, you are unwell."

The figure doesn't move, but Splinter can hear his knuckles crack as they tighten around the hilts. "You and your brothers have been missing for months. Miss O'Neil and Casey Jones have been assisting me in your search. You must tell me where you have been."

But he doesn't really need to. Even in the darkness, Splinter can see the insignia of the Foot adorning the shoulder plates of their costumes. The thought of his sons working for the evil they had once fought so hard to perish makes him sick, chills his aged frame to the bone, and he cannot bear to think of what had caused it. He can only hope that his words will rekindle what's left of Leonardo's mind.

The skin around his son's eyes tighten. "Answer me."

Splinter swallows back the fury that scorches his fur, and this time does not fear to take a step forward. "Hamato Leonardo! You must tell me what has happened at once! Why do you and your brothers bear the mark of the Foot? Have you forgotten the evil it carries?"

He breathes now, his old body worn to exhaustion. "Please, my son. Come back to me. You must understand."

Leonardo drops the point of his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground echoing around them. His words slip away from his mouth like air, first, uncertain ideas. Then it gains strength and the cold of ice and metal, the voice that is not his son's voice from the body that is not his son's body, searing through the silence like clockwork in the darkness. "No. I must destroy you."

The rat's eyes see it before his mind does. He drops down as the air above him is cleaved in two, then leans back into leap that puts space between them. Leonardo charges forward, his arm raised for another attack, but Splinter knows; he rolls to the side, springing forward and slipping behind his assailant. He aims his walking stick at the neck, but his son is too tall, and he hits only shell. It does little other than to push Leonardo slightly forward, and soon Splinter is on the defensive again as his son rounds on him.

He takes a step back, and almost cringes as cool metal nips at his feet. The stumble is enough. He barely has time to bring his stick up before the blade comes swinging down, lodging itself halfway through the wood. The other sword is raised, but Splinter is faster. His tail winds around Leonardo's ankle, and he pulls it out from under the turtle, sending him crashing to the ground. The swords fall with him, and the stick is wrenched from Splinter's grasp.

Leonardo hisses and yanks the strip of wood from his blade; it gives Splinter enough time to grab the metal beneath him, the art of wielding sai quickly running across his mind as he spins around to block another incoming attack. He catches the swords in the grooves, quickly pressing down, trapping metal within metal. He can feel Leonardo's breath on his face, a wildness to his movements now. He's growing tired.

It has to end.

Splinter wills what's left of his strength and rears his arms upwards. The shearing sound of sliding metal as the swords fly from Leonardo's hands, and he stumbles. The rat takes advantage of his shock and slams his foot into the flesh between his son's plastron and shell. His stomach drops as he feels a cracking beneath the skin—Leonardo howls, staggers to the left, clutches at his side with wide eyes. Splinter cannot bear to see it, cannot listen to his son's pained gasps. He has caused them. Spinning the sai in his fingers, he rams the blunt hilt against the back of his son's head.

He hears a choked breath escape Leonardo's mouth. The turtle falls to his knees, then to his hands, struggling to lift his head.

"F-Familiar...so..."

Splinter can hear his son's last conscious breath, a shuddering gasp, before he slips down onto the cold stone.

Only breathing fills the room. Only _his_ breathing.

The rat's skin tingles beneath his fur, adrenaline surging through old, strained veins. The sai in his hands suddenly feel too heavy; he allows them to slip from his grasp, the loud clattering masking all else for only a moment. Splinter fights to control his lungs, forces air through his nose. It's easier in the darkness, in the quiet, where he cannot tell that he is the sole victor.

"Leonardo," he breathes, and sorrow tugs his voice into a hollow rasp. "Raphael. Donatello. Michelangelo. What has happened here?"

Silence is his answer. He flicks his tail, swallows, and takes a step towards his eldest, sprawled face-down on the concrete.

"Fuck! _Fuck_! Stop him!"

The air around him shifts with sudden movement, and Splinter finds himself jumping away from the bo that crashes into the spot where he had just been. Donatello stops and leans onto the staff heavily, but the dangerous glare on his face is all too sincere. He grips the wood of his bo as though to raise it again, but Michelangelo is suddenly at his side, clutching his shoulder and shaking his head slightly. There's haze in both of their eyes, a confusion that swims through their expressions. Donatello looks like he's in the most pain, especially when he releases his weapon and stops to squint at the rat he once called 'sensei'.

Behind them, Raphael is bent over their leader, fingers gently pressing into his neck. Then a sigh, mixed with the throes of relief, storming fury, and a tiredness impossible for one so young. By some sort of instinct and practice, the old rat moves to help.

"Stay back."

Michelangelo's words are cold and pained, slurred through his teeth with a gasp. Splinter can taste the fear behind them. Yet a sense of absolute authority, one unlike anything he's ever heard from this son, trails along the chilled voice. They've formed something of a wall between Splinter and his two other sons. It's a weak barrier, and Donatello now leans against Michelangelo's side in the rippling waves of awareness, but he cannot bring himself to push through. He only takes a respectful step backwards.

"Got'r shells handed t'us." Donatello's breathy snicker penetrates the silence, and Michelangelo's attention shifts to his now madly giggling brother. "Déjà vu..."

The hope in Splinter's heart doesn't have time to light.

"Let's get these guys outta here," Raphael hisses. Leonardo's arm is strung over his shoulders, and Mikey shifts Donatello (now slipped into the blissful tides of unconsciousness) into the same position. The wildness in Raphael is still palpable; Splinter can see it rippling beneath his skin like demons, parasites, sucking his life away. He turns suddenly, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl that is far too much like his son's. "We're not gonna forget this, you bastard."

The old rat doesn't follow them as they stumble and disappear around the corner, eyes never leaving his—he now knows where they go. Instead he hobbles to his walking stick, the old injury alight in his thigh, his small frame creaking as he bends to pick it up from the cold ground.

He rubs his thumb over the groove, struck deeply into the golden vine carved onto the wood. And then, he weeps.


	5. Chapter 5: The Setting Sun

_"Faith is an island in the setting sun, but proof is the bottom line for everyone."_

_-----------~-----------  
_

Chapter 5: The Setting Sun

He feels them hanging on the edges of his mind, the dream-memories, slick and muddied with pain, confusion, a heat not all his own. Burning in his eyes, his mouth, the days and years not passed. Infallible, unbroken, wrapped like spools of wound spider-silk thread, the fragile gears of timeless clockwork whispering what cannot have been.

They float inside him now. The shifting images do not steady, but are a blur that pitch and rattle above him, beneath him, humming like bees, swirling colors of brown and gray. Then the streaks, the smears of blue, of red, of purple and orange. They are nowhere, no place, existing only as prints on the corners of his consciousness drawn in slowly fading ink. A sunrise. A cityscape. A tunnel.

Leonardo is not so sure he's ready to let go.

But the pull of the light is strong. For those who dwell in darkness—for him, the light is where he does not want to go. He has never wanted to. He buries his heels and roots his feet in a ground that does not exist. But the dreams and threads and gears and prints of nothing have turned on him, pushing him mercilessly into the void, and he finds that the light leads the way into a waking world.

The first thing that registers is a distant thrumming in his head, the hum of bees and memories swarming, ebbing, flowing with the pain and blood. A gnawing ache stretches through his side. He lifts a hand to touch it, but his arms are like lead beneath heavy fabric. The light seeps through his eyelids like a needle through his brain and he can feel a heartbeat pulsing madly... madly. He groans, a sickly sound in the depths of his throat, as he desperately tries to piece together his surroundings through the dizzying fog.

His stomach sways and clenches suddenly, filling him with the unbearable urge to retch. He rolls sideways and gags dryly over the side of the bed. Barely a second afterward he discovers that was an infinitely bad idea. The urge to vomit snaps out of him like a light, replaced by that throbbing ache in his side growing tenfold. Fire. He snaps his eyes open wide to the polished tile floor, and moans. It's an awful, pitiful sound and he hopes he'll never utter it again.

"Whoa, careful there."

The voice is distant, like it was shouted down a hallway, but coming closer, accompanied by a warm touch—hands on his shoulder, rolling him back onto his carapace. He stares up at the ceiling trying not to pant.

"Morning, sunshine!" The voice rings cheerfully through his head like a bell, the familiarity of it stirring a warning signal in the back of his mind. He shifts towards it, blinking rapidly as his eyes focus on—oh, come _on_.

His first instinct is to give a sudden start, which was, in all honesty, yet another very bad idea—blinding fire explodes throughout his right side, and he falls back onto the sheets, a ragged gasp escaping his mouth. Hiroshi's face is hovering ominously over his line of vision, but he's far too exhausted to even recoil. He breathes again, a feeling like knives in his chest. "W-what...?"

"Glad to have you back, Space." The human grins, taking his clipboard out from under his arm and flipping through the many pages. "You took some kind of beating there. How are you feeling?"

He doesn't dare respond.

The man simply chuckles, leaning downwards to rest his palm on Leonardo's chest. The turtle stiffens, but can't do anything as the medic runs his hands over his plastron. "You guys sure freaked me out last night. Your brother Raphael? He had me thinking you were DOA."

Leo desperately hopes it's the headache that made Hiro's comment sound like some kind of sick joke.

"But lucky you, just a pair of cracked ribs and one nasty knock on the head. It looks like your anatomy isn't all that different than ours, either. Well, aside from this," he corrects, knocking lightly on the hard surface.

Leo hisses as the dull pain throbs through his body, and Hiroshi offers him an apologetic grin. _Some medic._

_"_The... front, here... is a lot more sensitive than I thought."

He doesn't look at the man, only stares frowning at the ceiling. Something seems... off. _Wrong, _somehow. The battle is like a fading memory, a smoldering picture, a sea of faces and the clash of weapons. The adversary. He's a faceless blur of motion, a voice that still echoes from somewhere deep within. Pain. It explodes through his brain again with a sudden burst of light. He winces and reaches out sluggishly to push it away—Hiroshi's hand shining a pen light in his eyes.

"You really are out of it, huh Space?" He smiles, but the tone of his voice sends yet another bolt of confusion through Leonardo. He wrenches his eyes open again, brow furrowed.

He almost sounds... sad. Something about it doesn't sit right.

"They're okay, righ'?" He slurs. The haze clouding his mind makes his tongue thick and his words unclear. He squints as Hiroshi busies himself with flipping through that ever-present clipboard. "Wha... what happened?"

The man stares at him for a beat with an oddly serious expression. "They're fine. Bruised, and Donatello might be feeling about as shaken up as you are, but they're fine."

"Where..."

Hiro shakes his head, finally setting down his clipboard on the clean white countertop along the far side of the room. "They'll be okay," he says quietly, almost to himself. "You guys worry about each other. You probably already know how rare that is around here." When he turns, he's holding a needle and has a thoughtful smile on his face. Leo's eyes are glazed. "I'll talk to you more when you're feeling a little better."

As the medic starts swabbing a patch of skin on Leo's bicep clean, the turtle can only stare at those tiles on the ceiling. A prick of the skin and the lights are turned off overhead. The room is dark. He thinks about the faces of his brothers. Only pieces of memory come to him in the directionless haze. City sounds, the clash of weapons, voices—they buzz and grind together like the gears of a clock. Heavy eyelids, clouded eyes. Hiroshi's voice reaching softer tones, foreign, standing by the dull light in the doorway. He wishes him to rest like a whispered 'good luck.'

* * *

The next light comes like a rush, a swirling current of sensory detail—the fog retreats into some unknown space, settling heavily in the corners of his thoughts, covering the little prints and threads that he can no longer see. Yet the pain of failure still courses through his veins, his mind, pressing up against his eyes, splitting his conscience and numbing what's left behind. He swallows a groan as it threatens to spill from his mouth. Not again.

His head pounds like a drum against his skull, drowning all other sound. A warm touch on his shoulder forces his eyes open wider, blinking at the uncomfortable fluorescent lights above. His vision is throbbing slightly along with the heartbeat in his skull, but he blinks, breathes, and finds himself in the same position as before—lying in Hiroshi's infirmary. The touch is gone, and someone is moving across the room. Before he can piece it together, he squints and lets the word bubble from his mouth. "Donnie? Where..."

Then his mind snaps like a kick-start, like his drifting spirit had finally decided to return to his body. The girl at the other side of the room turns, her sharp features pale in the harsh light. Her expression does not change as she approaches. Hard, cool, precise. "I am Kasumi," she corrects, her voice flat and broken by a heavy accent. "I assist Hiroshi. He said wake you and offer you food."

Leo's eyes travel to the bowl of soup in the girl's hand before his gaze finds the ceiling again. He allows himself a few labored breaths, assessing the strength of his stomach before accepting. It seems settled enough since the last time he'd waken. "Okay."

"You must sit," she says flatly, placing the ceramic bowl on the small table by his bedside. She does not wait for an answer, but moves to his side, placing one hand on his plastron. Leo winces. She pauses for a moment, as though assessing something, then slips one hand beneath his shell. "This will hurt."

He doesn't even have time to register her words. Suddenly his insides burn with a fire all too hot, choking, broken daggers tearing at him from the inside. He gasps and goes limp in her arms, his vision reeling with unfamiliar color as she leans him against the pillow. He clenches his eyes and teeth, feeling every breath like a wound, grasping the sheets in trembling fingers.

"Eat." The command is cold and unsympathetic. Leonardo blinks open his eyes, regarding her with helplessness as she takes one of his hands and pushes the bowl into it. She's silent once more, studying his hand in her own, almost softly. But when she looks up again, frost still pools within her eyes."Do not shake. It will spill."

He presses his eyes shut again as the pain ebbs back to that familiar ache. The sharp pounding of his heartbeat against his skull slows and disappears. At least the bowl of soup is warm and comforting cradled in his hands. He almost doesn't want to eat it, but changes his mind quickly under the girl's imposing gaze. He studies her for a moment, sharp cheekbones and a slant frame, dark eyes as expressionless as her voice. By human standards she would be beautiful, but the coldness she regards him with only sends chills down his spine. He takes solace in the warmth of the soup. Miso, still hot from the kitchen.

It isn't until the bowl is halfway empty that pang of longing finally strikes him. He hasn't seen his brothers in what seems like days. It's probably only been hours, but being rendered as helpless as he is in the company of strangers is disquieting. Hiroshi had said Don had been injured for the second time this week, which only worries him further. He can remember back to the night before it all, the talk he had shared with his brother by the window in the dark and quiet room.

Had Don really thought he wasn't crazy?

Here he was, feeling crazier than ever in spite of it. Perhaps it's the concussion clouding his mind. Maybe it has something to do with the pain. But every thought, every fractured memory of the night that brought him here, injured and defenseless as a child, sparks yet another pang of longing. It gnaws at him from within, that streak of gray and pain, a flash, a blade biting into the wood of a carved walking stick. A golden vine, the dark, the city lights. It flashes across his mind in glass-edged fragments, pieces of a puzzle that has no answer to give.

"Hey, Space Case is awake!"

Leo almost spills the rest of his soup on his lap at that all too familiar voice. Hiroshi's laughing face is in the doorway, smiling so broadly his eyes crinkle like rice paper folds. He turns to the Kasumi, who had been busying herself at the counter just a moment before. "Sorry I'm late. You know what? If I ever need to stitch up another severed pinky, I think I'm going to scream. But the Master has his habits, if you know what I mean."

His joking is met by silence and two blank stares, but that doesn't seem to faze him.

"So, you feeling better?" The medic moves towards the sink, pulling off his bloody gloves and jovially clapping Kasumi on the shoulder (an action which earns him nothing but a scathing glare). He begins scrubbing his hands and arms, practical and conditioned, then slips on a fresh pair. Okay, Leo really doesn't like how Hiroshi's approaching him with his fingers stretched out like that.

Luckily, he only seems interested in the charts attached to the edge of the bed. Leo frowns as Hiroshi begins loading them onto his eternally existing clipboard—it looks like there's even _more_ pages now. But he won't let that distract him. He creases his brow, that sense of longing never leaving him. "Where are they?"

The medic freezes, hands folded around a sheet of paper. There's an almost guilty look on his face as he snaps the chart into place, reaching for a pen tied to the bed's railing. "Priorities straight as ever, huh, Space?" His eyes travel towards the bowl. "You finish that. I'll read up on your progress. Then we talk."

There's a silence that Leonardo hadn't known the man capable of. The room is starting to sway and the queasiness returns. The miso, only moments before soothing to his nerves, is now sitting sour in his stomach—the thought of drinking it now makes him feel sick. But despite the unprofessional behavior Hiroshi seems so intent on displaying, it's apparent that he takes his job seriously. Leo has no choice.

The moment he forces the last of it down, Kasumi is at his side again, her pale hand patiently outstretched. Leo wipes his mouth and shakily pushes the bowl towards her. She takes it wordlessly, the gentleness of her movements startling in her regular stiffness, and examines it for a mere moment. If she's pleased with the fact that he ate it all, she doesn't show it; only a stiff glare as his stomach burbles and he swallows uncomfortably. "Do not vomit."

And then she walks away, a carefully woven braid trailing behind her as she files out the door.

"Ain't Kassie a charmer?"

Leo remains silent, willing his stomach to behave.

"Aw, don't be offended Space Case. She's just mad she ended up here instead of on a squadron. But she shouldn't be surprised. I've only seen one girl go into battle, and that's the Mistress. Kind of an exception."

He doesn't have to open his eyes to see the man's wide smile. And he thought Mikey was happy beyond all reason. This guy definitely takes the cake. Cake? The thought promptly makes Leo's stomach squirm further. A bolt of hot agitation ripples under his skin. "Will you _stop calling me that_?!" He hisses, trying not to let it sound like a moan.

Hiroshi stops scribbling, eyes flicking upwards. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Fine." He swallows, pants. "I just need you to shut up... for a minute."

There's a heavy silence, the shuffling of papers, footsteps, chair legs scraping softly against the tiled floor. Leo opens his eyes once his stomach stops revolting, meeting Hiroshi's gaze now level with his own.

"_Leo_... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just lightening the mood. That's all." The man turns his face away, muttering under his breath with unexpected disdain. "God knows somebody's got to do it in this hell-hole."

Leo sighs. "No, it's fine. Sometimes I'm not the most _easy-going_ turtle to be around."

"You don't say." There's that smile again, and Leo tries his best not to find it irritating. "And here I am thinking you were the life of the party."

"You remind me a lot of Mikey, actually."

Hiro snorts back a laugh."You have a brother with a sense of humor? Say it ain't so."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't know. He's the one who was kicked in the face. Can't talk at all."

"Figures," he grins, leaning over to shine that awful penlight in his eyes again.

Leo frowns, brows creased, and tries not to flinch. "Seriously though. You're not answering my question. Are they okay?"

Hiroshi is silent for several moments, flipping through the pages of his clipboard again. "Fine. Raphael probably has a bit of a headache, and we had to pop Michelangelo's jaw back in place, but they'll live. Donatello was feeling just about as hot as you were when he left. Long as those other two keep an eye on him, he'll be all right. You, on the other hand—"

"When he left?" Leonardo tenses, his mouth running dry. His chest explodes in protest, but he only reaches out, pushing the clipboard away from Hiroshi's vigilant eyes. "Where? Where did they go?"

"It doesn't matter." The medic's reply is quick and sharp, but he turns his eyes away and stares off to the side. He won't meet Leo's gaze. "They're alive. They're safe. Isn't that enough?"

A pressure forms in Leonardo's throat. "No."

Hiroshi suddenly turns to him, a sincerity in his eyes Leo hadn't thought possible. Not in this Hell. "It's going to have to be."

Silence. Leo tries to breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts. But the sense of dread crushes his heart in a vice grip. It's more unbearable than any other. He wants to turn his eyes away, but won't take them from the man's gaze. "Is there a reason I can't see them?"

Hiroshi sighs, making some final scribbles on the clipboard before closing it and replacing it on the foot of Leo's bed. "I can't tell you that. Mostly because I don't know. I'm a medic. Nobody tells me anything. Just stitch up this, clean up that, there's blood all over the dojo _yet again._"

Leonardo doesn't know what else to do. So he begs. "Please. Hiroshi, _please_."

Another sigh, this one even heavier than the last, weighing down his shoulders. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his white coat, shifts his weight, then sits down on the chair. "Look. You can't tell a soul about this." He leans forward with a level gaze, his normally joyful expression traded for something more grave.

"I promise."

Hiroshi licks his lips nervously, scanning the doorway before continuing. "From what I heard, the Master thinks you've been dragging down your team. Other than that, I was ordered not to allow any contact between you and them. I don't know why or even how I'm supposed to do it. But..."

Everything within Leo sinks like one thousand pounds of lead. He rocks his head back on the pillow and his vision blurs over those blank tiles on the ceiling, hovering like faceless angels waiting to just crush him in. He doesn't want to speak. He can't find the moisture to. He can't work past that intangible thing that's wound its hand around his throat. Their faces, their voices—the memories all blend together and threaten to strangle them. There's a tightness in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. "I... want to be left alone," he almost whispers. He never takes his eyes away from the ceiling. The medic's presence remains. "Please." Still begging. Pitiful.

The scuff of chair legs, chafing fabric, movement. Hiroshi's voice is soft and toneless. "Okay."

He understands. He has to understand. His footsteps are too heavy for him not to know the measure of this feeling.

He was a failure, and this was what it earned him.

"Oh. I almost forgot." Hiroshi's in the doorway. "Your sleeping quarters got changed." He turns and watches Leonardo stare at the wall with dull eyes and blank expression. "I guess that makes us roomies."

The lights turn off and the door clicks shut, leaving him alone with nothing but darkness creeping in from those one thousand invisible corners.

* * *

_A/N: (Willowfly) Well it looks like the first portion of this little ficcie is coming to a close. So far AFW and I have really had a blast writing it, and we're both really excited for what we have planned to come. I hope our use of OCs doesn't steer anyone away. We're trying our best to use them without allowing them to take the spotlight. If anyone is nervous about our female OC's presence, fear not. We definitely won't be venturing into Mary Sue territory with her. I hope you are enjoying the characters, though. Some heavily OC fics are just dull. _

_Anyways, thank you all for your support and reviews, especially the wonderful Nineteenth Souljah for recommending us on Stealthy Stories. Also, Tauni and Fantasyfan17 for the encouragement._

_Much love to you all!_

_(Angelfeatherwriter:) Willowfly already stole everything I was going to say, so I suppose I'm not here for anything but to look pretty. So. Hi, everybody! We hope that you're having as much fun reading as we are putting this out. There are still a few good portions left to this tale, all planned to the minutest detail, so wish us luck in writing it to the best of our abilities._

_Also, _please_ remember that we as authors are constantly trying to improve ourselves. If you have even the slightest issue with this story, whether it be description or plot or anything else, please tell us! Especially that we are now entering OC territory, critique is vital to our writing and learning experience._

_-Angelfeatherwriter & Willowfly  
_


	6. Chapter 6: Downpour

_"So many pains when the rain is falling."_

_-------~------  
_

Chapter 6: Downpour

In the Foot Clan, change comes as easy as breathing. Bonds mean distraction. Distraction means weakness. Weakness means death.

A part of him believes he should have died on the battle field, drowned in that dizzying flash of motion and connecting steel, the empty eyes of his brothers, that strange squeeze in his heart that's quickly buried. But of course, he's happy he survived. He's happy to be breathing, even if it's harder to find the air, even if it carries less significance.

He's spent weeks lying in bed in the medic's dormitory, nursing his sore ribs and aching head that fade with the memories of them. He hadn't seen his brothers for fifteen days. But as the pain recedes with time, the fading of their memory pierces deeper as it ebbs. He can't remember their eyes, their voices. Even when he tries to dream of their faces, everything is dull, smoothed over, mechanical. They dissolve into his nightmares like shadows on the walls.

Part of him believes it shouldn't be this easy to forget. Another part thinks he should be grateful. The ribs heal. The headache fades and disappears. The longing slowly drifts away—forgotten, like battle scars.

Life is back to running along with clockwork precision, though the scenery is different, the faces are different. Sitting in bed with nothing but his mind for company, he begins to agree with the other half. Life continues on without them and change becomes easy, like breathing.

There aren't many medics in the building. Their dormitory is small, gray, and bare. This time, there aren't any windows to distract him. Hiroshi, who runs the infirmary, bustles to and fro with his infallible rush of energy. He talks to Leo the most out of anyone, lying awake in the dark long after Lights Out, sacrificing the gory details of his latest patients with a laugh caught in his throat. Hiroshi, Leo soon discovers, has a very morbid sense of humor.

When the pain ebbs enough to stand, Leo emerges into the common room and finds Kasumi working through a kata. She holds her blade parallel with the floor, steps forward as if moving though water, arcs the blade, turns, and holds the position. When she catches Leo in the doorway, she studies him with the same cold precision. She doesn't break the stance, but lets it linger in silence before moving on to the next. When their gazes disconnect, Leo swears he saw fear in her eyes.

_"She's just mad she ended up here instead of on a squadron," _says Hiro's voice in the back of his mind. _"I've only seen one girl go into battle, and that's the Mistress. Kind of an exception."_

Leo begins to wonder if the Clan treats _anyone_ more than sub-human. He for his appearance, her for her gender, Hiroshi because he's better suited for a scalpel than a sword. Or maybe what Hiroshi had told him all those sleepless nights was true.

_"We're disposable," _he'd said, "_I've seen enough severed fingers to know what they think about us. All that stuff they promise is a lie. We're just cattle waiting to be slaughtered."_

Leo had said nothing, just stared into the dark as Hirohi laughed away his own morbidity. People like that were dangerous to be around. Leo didn't know how he knew that, but he did, like instinct. His words were poison, but still he could believe them. So he listened, a little bolt of fear twisting in his chest, and never said a word.

Hiroshi knew he was doomed, and he trusted Leo with that same casual sense of hopelessness. It was then that Leo became certain he was just as good as dead.

As the days had passed, it came with a growing dread. Every night wrapped in dreams and nightmares, flashes of things he still couldn't grasp, still couldn't understand, was laced with a paralyzing terror that spread through his mind like a poison. Every breath reeked of it. Every heartbeat pumped it through his veins. Every thought had brought him closer to death.

And yet for what haunts him, it is not enough. Before Leonardo can take his waking breath, dream-things turn into the real-things and the fear of the night is now in the day, too. He hopes above all that it is a trick of the mind, that the confusion and doubt will stay in the dark where they belong. But no such thing, and he's forced to reel in the crippling fear that replaces the peace of morning.

A part of him names it worse. In the light, he can see how little he has to lose.

Meditation takes the place of waking hours. He sits in darkness with the world rushing around him, running on its course towards the chosen destinies. For now, in this place, he's destined to die. His confusion is like lead weights strapped to his ankles. In a place as sharp and fierce as the Foot Clan, a clouded mind could mean a second of hesitation. Hesitation, distraction, weakness—it all amounts to death.

But he can change his destiny. He has no other choice. The bones heal, the flesh is shifted, and he will shift and mend as well. He has no other choice.

The poison flows through the room on the tongue and in the eyes of his human friends—fear, laughter, and hopelessness. Poison seeps into his brain with every heartbeat. And yet goodness is here as well. Their is laughter where silence should be. There is honesty where everything has duplicity. They have taken away his brothers, but at least he can be reminded of them.

Yet, if he changed, would they allow him back?

If he changed, would they have changed too?

The next night, Leo finds himself wound like a chord. Meditation only surfaces more questions, questions he can't afford.

Lights Out and the room is smothered in darkness, the silence broken only by their breathing. That night, Hiroshi doesn't dare to speak. Leo lies awake beneath its weight with fear worming in his chest. Something between them has shifted, and he knows it's in him.

He has to change. He must forget.

Change comes as easy as breathing; if only he could find the air.

* * *

The day beings with a world of white-plastered walls, pale deaths, sick eyes and iron mouths. Disorienting light. The long, fevered pitch blurs in his ears, the cry of something passed. Everything he knows, nothing he wants. It feels like all the others.

He pushes himself onto his feet, the tile cold beneath his skin, and rounds the corner into the operating room. A blanket is spread over the table, lumpy and splattered with blood. Hiroshi is there, holding a scalpel shining scarlet under the fluorescent lights. His eyes flick up to Leo's and he straightens, tosses the scalpel noisily into a metal tray, and pulls the mask off his face.

"Poor bastard never stood a chance." He moves to the monitor and switches it off, the deafening blare of a flatlined heart choked away with silence. "You should see his insides. Looks like chili. Wanna peek?"

"I'll pass," Leo says with a cringe, pointedly taking a step back. "Has my equipment arrived yet?"

"Yeah, in the back. Came just an hour ago." Hiroshi gestures to a cardboard box settled on the counter, then begins his clean-up duty. Leo goes to it and pries open the flaps, frowning at the black uniform inside. At least it's been washed.

The light clink of surgical tools and fabric brushing against shell are the only sounds as he suits up. He pauses suddenly, a prickling in his right side. He twists around and brings up a hand to feel it, rough thread poking his fingers. "What's this?"

"What?" Hiroshi looks over his shoulder, then returns to the sink. "Oh, that. Your uniform was torn up when it got here. Whatever broke your ribs had some mean claws on it."

"Oh." Gray blurs across his vision, cracking wood, golden streaks, pain. "You fixed it?"

"I'm no tailor, but I sure as hell know how to sew stuff up," he admits with a shrug. "Only got halfway through before that guy was dragged in. Sorry."

Leonardo swallows and reaches back inside the box, stiffening when something cool and hard brushes his fingers.

New katana. He lost his old ones on the mission. Fury swells in his heart as he lifts the first up and pulls it from its wooden sheath. They're fiercely beautiful despite their plainness. He can't remember where he'd gotten the old ones, but they certainly hadn't been Clan-issued. Still, he had known their rough-carved hilt and worn, blue tsuka, the crude steel of their battle-scarred blades like his own limbs. But this blade is smooth and brilliant, the hilt perfect and its bindings black. And yet, it has the same weight, the same balance, and the same length as the ones he's left behind. He swings it softly, the air cutting around him, the roar of battle churning distantly in his mind. Just like before. It's all the same.

But now, an insignia rests on the metal. He tilts the blade into his palm. A green image wavers on its surface, distorted by the symbol of the Foot. Emblazoned red, a blood spot that can never be wiped away.

It's not the same. It will never be the same.

"What're you waiting for, a doctor's note?" Hiroshi's tone breaks him away, and he stares into those laughing, worried eyes. "You're clear. Now get the hell out. You're not even sterile."

Leo turns his head to hide a weak a smile. It feels wrong with such a heaviness in his heart.

He sheathes the swords and leaves the room without another word. Their darkness still rings in his ears like a stilled heartbeat.

* * *

The dojo erupts with sound and motion the minute he steps inside. Every part of him dreads facing them again. Word travels quickly in the Clan. He was expecting this—the watching eyes and fingers thrust in his direction, breathy sneers and sharp-edged whispers that tear through the air like open wounds. The room ripples with hostility, a hatred even deeper than before. But he ignores it, stepping down the aisle towards where Shiryou-Sensei towers over them like a king. His gaze is set, his muscles tense. He would do this, and he would prevail.

He had no other choice.

A sudden ache seizes his stomach when he catches sight of his brothers. He won't look at them. He can't. Forget them, he reminds himself. Cut the bonds. He walks forward through the crowd like a prisoner of war approaches his execution. He feels like he could scream until his lungs collapse. The room is too hot, thick, smothering, but he refuses to change his pace. His breathing is even, his face is set. The jeers and deadly smiles mean nothing. The bonds mean nothing. Not anymore.

He will cut them. One by one he will tear them away, the screaming, sleepless, haunted nights, until there is nothing left but green skin and battle scars. His mind will be as sharp, clear, and obedient as his branded swords.

He passes them without a hitch despite the cold terror clutching his insides. With every step he can feel the threads snapping like broken bones. They don't look at him, either, and it's better that way.

Leonardo stops in front of the platform, bowing low with his gaze fixed on the mats. "Ohayo gozaimasu, Shiryou-Sensei. I've come to ask you where my new position is."

Shiryou blinks at him dully, then barks out a laugh. "Oh, _that's_ right." He speaks with unnecessary volume, designed for humiliation. "You were dismissed from your squadron after failing that mission. I was informed. Your skills must be severely lacking if even _he_ is still a member." His eyes slide somewhere to the back, and Leo knows he's staring at Donatello. Rage swells in his vision, but he only presses his teeth together, and glues his eyes back to the floor.

"Sensei. My new position, please."

It sounded much more challenging than he intended. He bites his tongue. When he lifts his eyes, he watches Shiryou's face steadily darken. "You will learn your place," he spits, danger in every syllable, "and be grateful I even allow you back into my dojo." Leo's eyes snap back downward, pulse throbbing in his throat, offering another apologetic bow. "The back," the man barks, "where I don't have to look at you."

Leonardo bows once more and turns towards the back, wading through the crowd again, shoulders back, gaze fixed ahead. The noise has stopped now, all content to watch as the creature so highly praised by the Master is humiliated before their eyes. They all love to watch him fail. They relish every falter, every mistake. That is why he has to prove them wrong. The Master _does _have faith in him, and he knows there is a reason. Before he was distracted. Now, he will be lethal.

But the pull is too strong. It finds his weakness before he can resist, training his gaze on his brothers. Their eyes pierce the floor, fists tight at their sides, pain in their expressions. Frightened. Furious. Shaken, Leonardo stops. They do not.

It lingers only for a second, then shatters. He walks again, jaw clenched, his movements more determined than before.

It was easier to push them away before, when he didn't think they would push back.

* * *

Practice passes smoothly, like a river winding down a rocky path, for this is the way of the Foot. It always was and it always will be.

Running through the katas, one alone within the many, Leonardo reflects upon the common metaphor. Water is weak on its own, but with the force of many giving it strength, the river can carve holes through mountains. He loses himself in it, within the motion of the room in sync with one another, the forms of his brothers no longer sparking a sense of longing, but a mild interest in how they blend together like ripples or waves. The river is a call to lose the sense of self for the unity of the whole, to sacrifice the one for the sake of the many.

He finds an irony in it—his eyes blurred with focus and the movement of hands, the call that orders the next exercise, the smooth calculation that each ninja takes to fall in step with the others, without even a breath—if the Master was so bent on separating him from his brothers, and the sense of self was meant to be forgotten for the common good, wasn't his brothers part of the whole? Wasn't this form of isolation only intensifying his focus on the self?

Or maybe Hiroshi's terrifying pessimism was right after all. They were isolating him because he wasn't part of the water, he was the rock that stood in the way.

That was always the problem with metaphors. Dual meanings. As if he wasn't confused enough already.

Clarity. He just needs clarity. He must become the water, not the rock.

The kata ends and he's left with more questions than he began with. Sparring sessions will be saved for voluntary afternoon training. Practice is over and the room bows its respect to Shiryou-Sensei. The others move like a tide to the cafeteria without any further instruction. Like cattle, they know their place, they know their orders and they will follow them without question.

Is this clarity, or is this form of dull-eyed obedience just a further clouding of the mind? He feels more certain of the proper way of things than he did before he woke up. Still, the duality of it makes his head spin. But he will keep his mouth shut and his gaze down, his new swords sharpened and his mind unquestioning to the ways of the Master. He stands in line with his tray, just as all the others, fills it well and crosses the wide expanse of tables, everything just the same.

That is, until he sees his brothers. It isn't the twist of longing that brings his eyes to the table now. It was something deeper, like a pull from the marrow of his bones, like instinct. It was the sound of Mikey's voice, strangely hushed and level, that drew him in before he could push it away.

"So who would you choose to fill the fourth spot? The Master's rule is four or five for a squadron, right?"

"Yeah, four or five for missions, an' I'm not plannin' on letting this squad sit around and take up space. We're here to serve the Master an' that's what we're gonna do. Shiryou-Sensei gave me permission ta choose two, just in case we gotta get rid of another weak link."

Leonardo watched dumbly as his brother made a vicious gesture in Don's direction, a wicked grin spreading slowly over Michelangelo's face. Donatello didn't lift his eyes from his meal, but continued to eat methodically with a sense of defeat apparent in his posture.

"I can do better," he murmured between mouthfuls. "I _am _doing better."

"Shut up!" Raph snapped. "You're not 'sposed to talk. _And you..."_

Leo gripped his tray until his knuckles whitened as Raph lifted his eyes, jabbing his chopsticks in his direction.

"You're not even supposed to be here."

"Why can't Don talk?" The question fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. His muscles stiffened at the coldness in his brothers' gazes. Even Don lifted his head to penetrate him with an icy, blank stare. It sent a chill up Leo's spine, but still he found his feet cemented to the floor.

"Because he's 'sposed to be meditatin' on how he's gonna learn to fight like an acceptable ninja. He'll talk when he proves he's worthy to. I'm sick of all this daydreamin' crap. I won't have it. Not on _my_ squadron."

"He's your brother, Raph. You don't have any mercy for your own brother?"

"Mercy?" He scoffs. "If I didn't have mercy, I'd be sendin' him to the infirmary with all the other ninja-rejects waitin' for expiration."

It felt like the entire room had fallen silent. "You did this?" Leo hisses, anger burning in his stomach. "_You_ did this to me?!"

"It was what the Master wanted. Who am I ta argue?"

"Raphael! My brother! That's who you are!" Heads turn in the crowd of ninja, and Leo struggles to lower his voice to a whisper. He felt like he could break his tray in two. "Don't you think being a _brother _means more than serving the Master? We grew up together, Raph, long before all of this."

"I could get you killed for saying that."

It was a statement, plain and simple, emotionless. Michelangelo blinks up at him matter-of-factly, without a hint of regret.

Leo chokes, staring into his baby brother's blank eyes. He had to turn away. Reflexively, he looks to Donatello who gazes lazily at him over a bowl of rice just as blankly. "...Don?"

"I think you should go."

This time, Raph doesn't admonish him for speaking. Leo doesn't say a word. He turns, setting his tray on an empty table, and storms out the cafeteria doors.

If change is as easy as breathing, he's not long for this world.

* * *

Discord. The hammering of thoughts, feelings, helpless and hollow, across his mind in blazes of red and black. Melts. Everything slows to an aching pace around him. He swallows, and the taste of bile, of iron and cold, it all coats his insides. Sneers and jibes of those who are supposed to be his comrades as he storms past—the discomfort and shame is gone, only like baubles of children now, pointless, nothing. Him. Breathe. He has to breathe. He has to change.

The infirmary's black-lettered door closes in on him like a beast, and he flings it open without a second glance. Hiroshi is there, a medical file open in his hand. A smile in his eyes as he turns, but Leo doesn't wait for the greeting. Too loud. Too cheery. Only nods and moves into the back room, sitting on his bed and burying his face in his hands.

Three fingers. One. Two. Three. Three brothers. Unique, the same. All the same.

It _hurts. _It hurts like broken ribs and tearing sinew. It rips everything into shreds—his pride, his dignity, everything he ever held close to him. He draws into himself, hugs his knees to his chest and tries not to shake under its weight. Weakness. It's all just weakness burning like swallowed tears.

He thought he could do this. He thought he could forget. He thought he could change. He thought it would be easy, but even now he's struggling to breathe. It just comes to him in gasps like the air is made of lead or there's a hand around his throat. He wants to collapse into it, crumble and fall like they everyone is hoping he will. He could die without their strength holding him like the bones that hold his flesh. He could crumble like the ruins of something once great, now made ugly, weakened, torn.

It's never that easy. Never.

He'd lied to himself enough to believe it, but it wasn't true. He couldn't will this away. He couldn't forget they were brothers. He couldn't forget everything that meant. He couldn't forget how deeply his family defines him.

But they don't want him.

Somehow he'd convinced himself that the Master was the only reason for this. Something in him hoped that his brothers were pining for him just as he had done for _weeks_ while healing his injuries. But he can't shake off the blankness in their eyes, the poison in their words. Even Don, who once believed him, pushed him away with words and a stare cold as ice.

He uncurled himself long enough to crawl under the bed sheets, shuddering beneath the imagined cold.

It was obvious. They didn't miss him. They didn't want him. They didn't _need_ him.

"Leo?" Hiroshi. He glances up, eyes struggling to focus as the medic lingers in the doorway. Just Hiroshi. Just nobody. "What's wrong?"

He opens his eyes, unaware they had even been closed. He doesn't want to speak. He can't even breathe to form the words. And if he did, what's the difference?

"Nothing." His voice is heavy like lead. He thinks it could drag him to Hell if he wasn't already there. "Go away." Like his brothers did. But Hiroshi doesn't, and when Leonardo remembers to blink he's greeted with the beam of that damn penlight. He brings up a hand around the medic's wrist and squeezes. "Don't. Go away."

"No." Hiroshi's voice is taut when he shakes away Leo's grip. "Not until you tell me what happened."

He shudders again and gasps at the memory of his brother's voice. He hadn't heard Mikey speak in over a month, and _this_... this is what he's left with. A death threat. Speak of replacing him. An indifferent stare.

"My brothers hate me," he says stiffly. He's quickly losing control over his own voice.

"Who the hell told you that?" Hiroshi's voice sounds different when he's serious. Confident, but useless. "You should have seen them when they brought you in, Raph—"

"Hate them, too." This time his voice wavers and he curses it. "Bastards."

Now the medic looks really concerned, and can't be blamed for it—Leo's never talked like that. Ever. "Stop it, Leo. You don't mean that. They're your _brothers_."

"They're not." His words take on a cutting edge, sharp like polished steel. "I can't even remember."

"Remember what?"

Leo doesn't pause. He's growing fiercer by the second. "Growing up. I remember _nothing. _How am I so certain they're even my brothers? Why do I feel this way?!"

For once, Hiro seems to be at a loss for words.

"And don't say it has anything to do with how we look alike. That doesn't mean a thing. All of this means nothing." He doesn't let himself accept how much he's scaring himself. The ice in his voice is almost enough to prove their brotherhood. But that's forgotten. The anger, the fear, the grief, everything has vanished, replaced by this settling, numbing cold. He feels that if he moved he'd shatter, so he stares ahead blankly, ignoring Hiroshi's shifting expression. "I hate them. They distract me. I fail because of them." A flash of teeth, a grin that isn't supposed to be there. "Not anymore."

Leo doesn't react as Hiroshi grabs his shoulders. "Dammit, why are you acting so weird? I know you care about them. They're your _everything_. You wouldn't shut up about them for weeks, and now—" He trails off, dropping his head; Leo watches as he spends moments in silence, then suddenly revives with a shake of Leo's shoulders and a panic in his voice. "You're supposed to be _different_!"

Leonardo sits, pushes away the blankets and grabs Hiroshi's hands, pulling them away. Three fingers. Five fingers. The most obvious thing in the world. "I am different."

Hiroshi freezes, like the dead man on his operating table. Pale, eyes wide in eternal shock of something that wasn't supposed to happen. Death for moments. Then a sigh, the world in his breath, and he shakes his head. He might hate Leo, too. But he merely stands, grabs the stethoscope earpieces around his neck, and turns on his heel out the door.

Flatline silence. Leonardo draws his swords and rests them cold across his thighs.

There was a point in Leo's life where he feared his blades defined him. He'd thought himself nothing but a sword, and hated himself because of it. The memory is cloaked in shadow, but he remembers the feel of the hilts sliding from his hands, the liberating silence, the clatter of steel on pavement. Then he had decided that he was not the weapon, but defined it in himself.

That feels like countless years ago. The memory fades, as with all things.

He studies his reflection. He studies their eyes—two watching Foot insignias waiting for reform.

He was wrong. He is the blade, he is the weapon, and he will stop fighting this.

He will forget them—their faces, their voices, their words. He will forget the memories, the battles, the dark places and city sunsets. He will let go of everything—the sound of traffic, the dreams, the night, and that ever-present sense that he's meant for something more.

It's easier this way, he thinks. His mind will be clearer, his blades sharper, his attacks quicker. He will cut the bonds and finally be free from weakness, free from death, free from the threads that bind him. He will serve his Master without question, and he won't fail again.

His swords whisper something of unexplained importance. They always have. They're all he has left.

Leonardo makes a vow. If the blood spots are a testament to who he is, he will bleed until nothing is left.

* * *

_A/N: (Willowfly) I'm feeling chatty today, so here's an A/N!  
_

_So Angel decided to be a dork-face and go to Hawaii for two weeks without me despite my attempts to smuggle myself in her luggage. But here's the kicker_—_she's also without a computer. This means that our next update will probably be a little delayed. Not like that would be surprising, considering that this chapter is so delayed as well. I may end up starting the next chapter, but there's a minimum of two weeks wait for chapter seven. Oh well. _

_You can blame our new infatuation with the Tales of Leonardo: Blind Sight comics for the reference to the swords. I've recently become a huge TMNT comic buff, so you'll probably be seeing a lot of Mirage-verse references in my work from now on. If you haven't read them, I highly recommend them. PM me if you're interested in scans._

_Reviews are well-appreciated, though just knowing you're reading gives us much happiness. I feel as though this fandom is 90% dead, so reviews aren't a priority anymore. Nad, Tauni, Dani, Pi... we write this for you. Without you four we probably wouldn't have any reason to continue. You are our motivation and inspiration!_

_Also, since I'm babbling, we never got to thank Kindred Spider aka Quoth the Raven for giving us the best first review any authoress could ever ask for. _

_We may not get a lot of feedback, but having such amazing support from such wonderful friends and authors is worth its weight in gold._

_Much Love,_

_Willowfly_

_A/N: (Angelfeatherwriter) What she said. Except for the two-week part. Eight to nine days, Ash, stop being so dramatic. Anyway, this is going up the day of my departure, so think of it as a going-away gift! See you guys later! And don't let Ash update without me. Kick her or something.  
_

_-Angelfeatherwriter  
_


	7. Chapter 7: The Storm

"_Life does not consist mainly of facts and happenings; it consists of the __storm__ of thought that is forever flowing through one's head.__"_

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Chapter 7: The Storm

When Hiroshi leaves, the sound of the slamming door echos through a hollow place in Leo's chest. The warmth is gone and he is numb to everything. Only cold remains; silence and the bitter wind that fills it. His eyes are unfocused, staring at the empty door, and he knows that things are changing.

Frost clings to the walls, hangs crystal in the air, and his once burning hatred turns to icewater in his veins. When he breathes, it comes in a fog, and he knows another dream has taken him. But this time it's different. There's nothing to distract him—no laughter, no sunrise, no questions answered with more questions. The city sounds are quiet, and all his memories lay beneath the freshly fallen snow.

The clock on the nightstand ticks, and it anchors him to consciousness with something fragile as a kite string. Time passes, halting and unsteady. The cold seeps in from the cracks where he is broken and fills the gouges in his memory, washing darkness over the lighter places.

The light is too confusing, like memories of traffic. It blurs around him in a whirlwind of color, noise, and faces he never knew, places he's never been. Worries, hopes, and fears that have no root, no meaning. The lies lay like brickwork in unending maze-like caverns that yawn and stretch for miles into the dark. Familiar. They drip with light and motion, clockwork whirring in the walls. Laughter chases down the tunnels from the smiling mouths of youth.

Shadows of memories, drawn to the light like the night bugs' paper wings. But he knows the dangers. He will not get burned.

Darkness is a constant. It clots and deepens as he approaches, and threatens to engulf him. The light dulls. The laughter quiets. He doesn't remember his childhood, but knows it's trapped somewhere behind the walls, built only to distract him.

Only the dark will set him free. He must believe it with every inch of his being and let the whirlwind freeze, his blood run cold.

Flatline silence. Pull the plug.

The dark crawls along the spiderweb cracks until seconds stretch on for days. Time slows with his heartbeat, and Leo realizes this isn't just a dream. He's wrestled the haze into a form of meditation and lets it settle in his bones.

In his dreams, he's helpless, but meditation he can control.

A frigid wind blows. Numbness fills the voids. The cracks are frozen solid, and the hollowness is gone. For the first time, Leo breathes and it is satisfying. The cold settles the whirring in his mind. The gears grind together, shudder to a halt as frost's sharp fingers creep across their surface like a spreading disease. Darkness swallows the light and the dream-things fade into oblivion.

Time beats along unchecked. And still, it means nothing.

His instinct fears the cold, but Leo knows better than to sleep. Instead, he will embrace it, sits frozen in the darkness with his swords lain across his lap, cold from the metal seeping into his thighs. He knows that if he shows his weakness, he could die buried like forgotten dreams. Instead, he will become it.

He is the blade. He is the lethal cold. He is solid, and he will prevail.

So he's detached himself from everything. In the mind of his mind, he's standing in an open field beneath a cloudless sky. Blue, and distantly familiar. The cold fog stirs at his feet, wraps its gnarled hands around his ankles, and tries to pull him under the snow. But Leo knows what he must do.

Ice erases all the fog, and his mind is snapped clean as a white December morning. The hands are gone. Only emptiness remains.

The awareness is so clear it's terrifying. His eyes open wide and he gulps more frigid air, senses sharp as razorblades. New katana. Snow. He stares at his reflection. His eyes are bright and fierce. A smile creeps over his lips like frost across a pane of glass, and his heart beats a vicious rhythm in his chest. Clarity. Adrenaline. His body hums with predatory eagerness, a hunger so intense he's sure he'll never sleep again.

The time for dreaming is over. Reality has won.

Without a pause, he stands, sheathes his swords, and readies himself for practice.

* * *

The dojo is quiet in the afternoons when practice is voluntary and morning sessions have sapped most ninja of their energy. But today, Leonardo has something to prove. The silence rings inside him. The sharpness of his mind will be his most deadly weapon. Those who doubt him will fall to the lethal cold.

They won't be expecting it, and the thought of shocked expressions makes him crack another frigid smile.

He walks through the threshold with laughter bubbling in his throat. It's a wicked amusement coiled with his hate, murderous as a raven's gaze. The scent of death is hanging in the air.

He is the reaper. That is what he's come to prove.

The faces turn with fire in their stares. Slader, all hunger and wolf-like prowess, catches his eyes across the room. And Leo glares him a steady challenge, the smile falling off his face. Slader snorts arrogantly when they disconnect, but his shoulders stiffen, fingers twitching into fists.

Outside Leo's face is solemn, but inside, he is laughing.

_Perfect._

They say nothing, and he slips behind a small group of men, leaning against the padded wall as they run through stretches and their katas. He's readied himself alone in his room for this purpose only—this session will be sparring, and Leo needs time to calculate their demise.

Each one is a capable opponent, but he studies Slader most intensely. In the end, he'll be the one that matters. This time, he will not fail.

Slader's grace is impressive for his size, but he leads with his shoulders, and moves as if top-heavy. Leo's seen the coiled dragon inked into his chest, and he knows in his marrow that it means he can't be trusted. Purple Dragons_, street thugs, _fight dirty and honorless when given the chance. _Attack him low, _Leo thinks. _Give him no opportunity, and the fight will be quick. Shiryou-Sensei will be happy. The Master will be pleased._

Minutes pass and Slader finishes his kata. His back is turned, but there's tension in his shoulders. Leo's heart pounds for a moment of wire-strung silence. The man is watching him from the corner of his eye. Again, Leo doesn't look away. Slader stiffens, then turns to face him, tight-lipped and furious.

They stand pouring silent loathing into each others eyes. Slader's, hot and boiling, Leo's, cold as a January night. Slader's mouth twitches, and Leo half-expects him to speak. But in an instant, a wicked grin is plastered on his face and he's laughing thick, hardy rolls of laughter like thunder scorning a rain-slicked sky.

The others stop their warm-ups and stare, confused. From the corner of the room, somebody mumbles, "What the hell is going on?"

But Leo knows. Slader thinks he's already won.

He doesn't move an inch. Suddenly, the room is freezing.

"Silence! Practice has begun. Get in your formations."

Shiryou-Sensei enters and Slader's laughter is killed like a car engine. Still, it echos off the walls even in the silence. As the dojo assembles into rows, it's still rattling in Leo's head.

Shiryou mounts the platform at the front of the room and eyes his kneeling pupils. Leo feels his gaze pierce him for a moment longer than the others. Silence collects like falling snow, and Leo lifts his head to meet the man's cold stare.

Shiryou breaks the gaze with a look of disgust.

"This session will be weapons sparring. It was announced as voluntary to weed out the _underachievers_." He pauses for a breath and his eyes flick back to Leonardo's. "Last night our Clan lost an active squadron during an important mission. One member was beaten to the point of unconsciousness, and the others abandoned their orders to go back for the wounded. Despite their selfishness masked as heroism, their comrade died in the infirmary this morning, then were ordered to commit seppuku for their failure. Now they must be replaced. If you believe yourself worthy, prove yourselves to me. If you are a coward, leave with your tail between your legs like the insolent dogs that you are!"

His passion had captured the attention of the room. There was a pause, broken by uneasy mumbling amongst the kneeling ninja.

"I am required to give you a choice. Those who remain will spar one to prove their value. It will be full-contact with your weapon of choice. Belt rank does not matter, and every match will be finished with a defeat. Those still standing after three victories will be sent on a mission for the Master, and he who prevails will have the honor of becoming squadron leader." He pauses, his eyes flashing, hawk-like. "So speak! Vow your allegiance to the Clan!"

"I will." An icy wind stirs beneath his words as he steps forward and bows deeply. A sudden chill settle over the room, blinking eyes, shifting heartbeats. The disbelief, scorning, confusion seeping in from all corners does nothing but brighten the hollow ringing in his ears.

And the fear. He can taste it lingering in the air like the morning's shadow.

Shiryou-Sensei blinks with an expression of pure surprise. He stalks to the edge of the platform, leaning down with squinted, sulfuric eyes. "_You_? After all the shame your kind have brought upon this Clan, it is a wonder you have not been chained and prodded like the beasts you are."

Leonardo does not falter. He only lifts his bow and meets his eyes, frozen fields of gold. And still, his own are colder. "I've disowned my kind," he says darkly, "I've come to prove myself to the Master. I will give my life to the Clan, if that's what it takes."

Indignation swells across Shiryou's wrinkled face, and he opens his mouth, jaw quivering with rage.

"Shiryou-Sensei!" A rough, young voice splits the tension, and Slader steps up next to Leonardo, his skin warm as it purposely brushes Leo's arm. He clenches his jaw and pulls away as he continues. "I'll show this _animal_ his place."

"Ah, Slader-san." Shiryou expression twists with a wicked pleasure, and he steeples his fingers. "You protect our Clan's honor."

There was never a question as to whom he favored among his pupils, but every time he showed it, it seemed to inflate Slader's ego bigger. Beside him, the man's fierce arrogance fills the room. He bows to his Sensei in gratitude, suddenly ten stories tall.

Leonardo can sense the others straining for a reaction, but it doesn't come. Instead he bows once more, stepping aside as Shiryou bombards the rest of the room with Foot Clan propaganda, trying his best to appear unfazed.

One by one the room volunteers until nearly all the young ninja have sworn their lives away. As they gather along the walls to clear a sparring ring, Leonardo lets himself fall back behind the others. He'll need more time to prepare himself.

"Separate into three groups," Shiryou orders from the center of the circle. "In the beginning, one volunteer will take the center. One by one you will attack him until he is defeated. Once the center ninja is defeated, the victor will take his place at center. If you are defeated before three victories, you may leave my dojo to dwell upon your failure. If you succeed three times before you are defeated, you will remain for your next orders. Do you understand?"

The room breaks into a chorus of "Hai!" before shuffling into three equal groups like a well-oiled machine.

Leonardo positions himself in a far corner of the room and watches with a growing hunger. The others, his prey, gather around like collecting dust and stand in a loose circle, shifting their weight. They're watching him. Some stare on with expressions of unmasked terror, others with a silent, soul-deep loathing. They wait for him to make his move. But Leo hovers in the shadow, expression frozen, silent and unmoving.

That is until a second shadow casts over him, and a calloused hand closes over his arm, pushing him forward roughly. Immediately he breaks the hold and turns to glare venom into his assailant's eyes. He's rewarded with Slader's bold, toothy grin.

"Don't be nervous, freak. You think you got something to prove? Then do it!"

Leo's mouth is pressed into a hard line. His fingers ache for the hilts of his katana. But they'll wait. They'll wait.

"What'er you waiting for?" The man sneers, shoving him again. "Go! Lower belts first."

Then he's shoved into the circle, heart thrumming madly in his brain. But he won't indulge them, won't react. Now, it's time to fight.

"This'll be good," snorts a dark, willowy man shouldering beside Slader. It's no surprise the others have taken his side.

He waits, expressionless, for his opponent.

Someone is pushed into the clearing, and Leo takes a moment to study him. This man is nervous, raw terror ablaze in his eyes. He already fears him deeply and that will only work to his advantage. They bow.

In a breath, Leo buries his finger into the man's larynx. He exhales with a croak, and is splayed on the ground with a roundhouse kick to the head.

"_Y-yield_!" He coughs, writhing on the floor with his hands grappling miserably at his throat. Whispers erupt from the edges of the circle. Bodies shift. Slader frowns, and Leo bows stiffly as his victim is dragged away.

Another opponent steps into the circle, this time on his own accord. He's young, bold, and well-muscled compared to the first. But most importantly, he has fire burning in his eyes.

Leo smirks, then bows. This could be a challenge.

Immediately, his opponent grabs for his weapon—jutte—and hones in for a right temple strike. Leo slides into a back stance and an outward-block, wincing as the blow connects with his forearm. But the cold numbs the pain. His opponent parries backward, drawing back for a bone-crushing blow to the skull. Leo watches the weapon, his hand, his stance, and ducks into a side-kick before it connects. The weapon slams into his carapace with a blow that jars his skeleton, but the kick connects with the man's side, throwing him off balance.

Leo recovers, moves into a guard and waits for the next attack.

The ninja stands with weapon ready, pain written on his face. Leo watches him steadily and the man holds his gaze. Then, he attacks again.

This time, a feign that starts high as a shoulder strike, turning directions in half-blink meant to crush his knee. But Leo sees it, stepping in to block the assailing arm. In a heartbeat the arm is grabbed and his attacker is slammed bodily onto the mat, gasping for air. His jutte rolls aimlessly across the floor, and he blinks. Leo hovers murderously overhead with a cold, violent expression.

Something heavy sinks among the crowd. A gasp. They know what's coming next.

Leo raises his foot and slams his full weight down on the man's propped knee. A nauseating crack. The man screams, and Leo bows. When he straightens, his victim is gone, and his eyes flick over to Slader's. He only smirks, uttering a challenge. "That's two."

Slader's expression darkens like a coming storm, and there's wildfire in his eyes. Leo feels it—rage, bubbling like laughter in his stomach. He smiles, the fire burns, and Slader's hands wind tightly into fists. Silence hangs over the room as he moves forward, faceless ninja peeling away like a river splitting around a boulder. Even Shiryou, with his hawk-eyes frozen over, only watches in indignant rage as his prized pupil stalks into the clearing.

"Cute tricks," Slader hisses slowly, stopping, and drawing himself to full height.

Intimidation tactics, but Leo won't be fooled. He has the cold on his side.

"But playtime's over, freak," he rumbles, cracking his knuckles. "There's one thing separating the men from the boys here. One thing: I ain't afraid of you."

"I'm not a boy," Leo breathes, gales of winter sweeping across his words. "Or a man."

Slader snorts. "No shit."

_Dishonorable_, Leo thinks. The dojo is no place for a street fighter, no place for a brute that lacks even a shred of discipline. But honor and respect in that form are only distant things muted in the ice-fields of his memory. Here, respect is only necessary toward superiors, and cruelty is practiced like religion. Slader has no reason to treat him better than a dog. But Leo vows to prove him wrong, regain his honor, and earn the respect he craves.

He studies Slader's hard expression, a wall of frustrated energy. Uncontrollable, a raging fire. "You don't think I know what you are? You don't think I know why you're here?!" He bellows. Seconds pass, filled with only panting. Then, he grins in spite of himself. "You don't even know what that gong is for, do you?"

"Enough talking!" Shiryou roars, raw anger in his voice. "Shut up and finish him_._"

The room shifts again, and they bow, but there's no honor to it. Vicious gazes never disconnect, and he can hear his opponent murmur in his ear, "if you don't remember, I'll just have to remind you."

"Don't waste your breath." Leo seethes into his eyes. "I already know _I'm better than you_."

The words hold a distant meaning and it's _wrong_, laced with anger and the smell of rain. But_ "Fight_," the darkness whispers. _"Fight." _

All he feels is cold.

He straightens just in time to see a chainlock whipping toward his face. He drops down, feeling the air crack murderously above him. A growl rumbles in his chest, realizing the severity of his situation; despite his cockiness and dishonor, there's no doubting Slader is a skilled opponent. The crude manriki leaves him with few options, so he's forced into the defense.

"You don't know?" He rumbles like an avalanche, the chain striking the mats where Leo once had been. "You don't know it's just a lie?_"_

He hears nothing as he dodges, thinks of only getting in close, breaking the cycle. No swords. He won't need them if he can get in past the arc of the chain. They rattle against his shell as he stays on the move, heartbeat screaming for his opponent's blood.

"Just think—why would the Master want you? You're a _reject,_" Slader sneers. "Even your own kind can't stand you!"

Slader's leg flies at him in a kick, barreling toward him in his peripheral vision. Like brittle ice shattering over a lake, the clarity rushes back. Weakness. He moves into a block and Slader's wide-arced strike is broken, stumbling on the recovery.

It takes exactly one-point-three seconds for the rest of Slader to catch up with his own momentum, but it's enough. Leonardo dives for the ground, flips his weight over his arms, and slams a powerful kick into Slader's jaw. He feels the crunch of teeth under the impact. Slader drops the chainlock and clutches at his face, blinking away his shock.

Two seconds for recovery, if Slader is anywhere near as good as everyone believes. He's a brawler, with enough mass to make up for his slight lack of speed; Leo knows better than to spend any more time in close combat than he needs to, and to strike only when he's stunned. Instinct, ringing wind in his blood, already forces his body into a twist for a roundhouse kick.

Adrenaline surges white across his vision as Slader's arm comes up in a block. Estimation off by point-seven seconds. A powerful crunch around his ankle, but he refuses to cry out.

A sudden, unwelcome pressure pounds into his head as Slader hauls him upward, dangling him upside-down. Rage boils beneath his eyes like pools of molten rock. "You little _shit,_" he hisses through a bloody mouth. "You think playing the Master's little pet protects you? I could kill you right now, and nobody would care."

Three distorted faces ripple across the ice, then drown in the howling wind. Slader's right about one thing.

"Try."

The emptiness reaches into his voice; maybe it always has been.

It doesn't matter. Slader roars, and there's nothing he can do—the action is too sudden, too quick to draw his swords. Impact. His mind jars into two shuddering worlds.

Slader's too heavy to knock his legs from under him, too strong to twist out of the hold—can't—

Everything stumbles to a halt as Slader releases his ankle, the quiet thump of flesh against tatami. The heat of overwhelming rage, humiliation as he tries to recover, but his arms tremble and his ribs have erupted into a maddening fire. Too soon.

Leo collapses, face-down. He grits his teeth with his forehead pressed against the mat, trying to control his breathing that rakes his throat in furious huffs.

He can _feel _Slader grinning from beneath his eyelids, footsteps working a circle around his helpless prey. He fights for breath, swallows back the shadows lingering at his mind's horizon; he will not be consumed. Slader is nothing. He will work through the pain.

Sensation returns to him in a rush, an avalanche crushing a green valley beneath its rolling waves of snow. Reluctant cheering seeps in from the dark corners, Slader's drunken victory rolling off of his shoulders like water.

Disgust sits sour in his stomach. They are all the same—all dishonorable pigs.

Footfalls pound closer, and the dark behind his eyes grows darker. The air shifts above him, and Slader's breath rolls across his cheek like a forest fire. "And then," he whispers, "there were three."

In the shadow of the hungry flames, Leonardo sees his death.

There is a moment where he's outside his body, so full of loathing it forces him out of consciousness. He's on his feet with jaw wired and teeth ground to sandpaper. Heat and blistering cold. Pain... work through the pain.

Slader stumbles backwards with wide eyes. It's the look Leo had been waiting for; blind him with the lethal cold.

He is a machine—precision of a knife edge, deadly calculation. He ducks in quickly before Slader's swing connects. His block is too late, and Leonardo delivers the killing blow.

A jab to the trachea leaves him breathless. The strike moves to an elbow in the chest, a single, fluid motion finished with a backhand punch to the face. It knocks the man backwards before his legs are swept from underneath him.

Slader's face pales as he topples like a ten story building.

He lays on his back, staring dazed up at the ceiling until the face of the enemy towers over his view. There's a metallic sound, smooth and polished spotless, catching the dull light. Something cold bites dangerously close to his jugular vein.

Above him, Leonardo is smiling.

"You were wrong," he mutters, "there was always one."

* * *

In the end, four survived the trials. In the end, four stand outside the Master's elaborately carved twin lacquer doors. Above looms the over-sized insignia of the Clan. The Foot. His home and purpose. _Four. _The idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

At their head, Shiryou-Sensei bows to the guards who eye the group sharply from under their wide straw hats.

"Candidates for squadron 239-B to see the Master," he says swiftly, straightening himself.

Simultaneously, the guards nod and swing open the heavy doors. As Shiryou steps forward into the dark expanse of the room, he turns back and orders harshly, "Wait here until you're summoned." Then the doors close behind him, swallowing the guards as well.

There's an uneasy silence, all unspoken words and stiff bodies. Rigormortis. Slader leans against the wall with his arms folded, the tightness in his face betraying his satisfied expression. Leo busies himself with watching the torchlight play with the shadows on the floor. But he feels the burn of injustice. Slader shouldn't be here. He was defeated fair and square.

Then, Leo nearly laughs to himself. It's yet another thing Slader had wrong. Around here, playing someone's pet does have its advantages. He should know that better than anyone.

"Um..."

He's suddenly drawn out of his brooding by the young voice to his left. A lanky boy with dark skin and fear written in his eyes is standing anxiously beside him with his mouth hanging open. He looks torn between raw fear and awe.

"I know you," he speaks again in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Remember me?"

Leo watches him in the torchlight, studies the wideness of his eyes, the whites. But this boy is brave, and a lethal enough ninja to make it this far. It's impressive, to say the least. He couldn't be older than seventeen, but has a kusari gama and an assortment of shuriken looped in the belt around his waist.

In the end, age doesn't matter here. Even species doesn't matter. Friendship and family don't matter. The only important thing is how fast and well you kill.

"You're the boy from the cafeteria. You delivered a message from the Master to me a few weeks ago."

He nods furiously, thumbs hooked in his belt loop in an obvious attempt to seem sure of himself. "Yeah. I'm Nick."

And even in the cold, Leo likes this boy, if only for the distraction he presents. So he smiles, just a twitch, and shakes his trembling hand. "You must be quite a ninja to make it this far."

"That's right," he says again, smiling a bit cheekily before tightening his face into an overtly hard expression. "I been on the streets since I was a baby. When my daddy died, I joined up n' learn to be ass-kickin', just like him."

"Your father was in the Foot?"

"Purple Dragons," he corrects, "but the Foot's better, so I joined up."

"Why is the Foot better?" Leo asks.

The boy's wide eyes flick across the hall towards Slader. He's still leaning, glowering at them openly. "Slader'll tell ya."

Slader straightens, still maintaining his scowl. "You shouldn't be talkin' to that _thing_, Nicky."

"Why not?" The boy challenges. "I didn't mean nothin' by it. I'm just bored! We've been waitin' out here forever."

"He's right, Nick," says a weathered voice from the shadows. Leo squints to see his face, but the figure never moves. "It is only trouble. He is... not one of us."

The kid folds his arms and rolls his eyes, turning back to Leo. "I heard the stories. Everybody has. They talk about you."

Leo quarks a brow. "Who does?"

"The senseis," he murmurs. "Everyone. They tell stories about you fighting the Master... say that you're dangerous and we shouldn't talk to you. They tell us about the gong an' how to get around it."

Leo moves to ask more before Slader interrupts, looming from the shadows behind the kid, and promptly smacking him upside the head. "Shut up about that," he growls. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Aw, damn!" He groans, hand moving up to the sore spot. "You were talkin' smack all over the dojo just a second ago. What's your deal?!"

"That's different," Slader spits. "I don't go 'round sayin' shit like that."

"You said the exact same thing. I heard you!"

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes through the hall. Nick recoils, but doesn't fall as the punch connects.

"Remember who I am, punk! You remember who got you here! You remember who keeps that mother of yours safe."

The kid stand with his back turned to Leo, facing Slader, wringing his hands despite that sure expression. The man's face twists into a furious scowl, his resolve shattered, pulling back for a second punch. But this one doesn't connect. Instead it winds up twisted awkwardly in the boys hand, and the mountain of a man is brought down to one knee, wincing as his bones are torqued.

"How 'bout _you_ remember _me_?" He spits, voice suddenly deeper, more menacing. "Remember I'm ass-kickin' now. I ain't the kid you scraped off the streets." The kid lets go and Slader scowls poisonously down at him as he stands, but his hands remain limp, never moving for another blow. "I'll say what I want," he adds, the words twisted in his mouth with both accent and attitude.

When he turns back to Leo, he's bursting with self-admiration. He moves to lean back against the wall next to Leo as the guy with the old voice in the corner starts chuckling.

"What's so damn funny, Jiro?" Slader spits indignantly. But the shadow only waves him off patronizingly.

And then it's quiet again, save for the crackle of torches, and the man, Jiro, humming quietly to himself under his breath.

But the cold of Leo's cleared mind threatens a storm, and he finds himself less and less at ease with the silence. He watches the boy beside him, busy chewing at his fingernails, and the questions come flooding back again. He bites his lip, tries to force away it away, but in the end, the silence rings too long, untold stories begging just to fill it.

"You mentioned a gong," Leo asks quickly, his eyes turned away. "And I feel... it's important for me to know."

Tension, wound like a wire chord. Again, he meets the wideness of the boy's eyes, the insecurity and false-innocence he has yet to learn to mask. His mouth twitches for a moment, then his eyes drop to the floor.

Slader starts impatiently cracking his knuckles. "Well, boy?" He drawls. "You're such tough shit now, why don't you tell him?"

Nick shoots him a glare and takes it as a challenge. "Yeah. Okay, I will."

Then he turns back to Leo again, and his mouth falls open--the same fear-stricken messenger boy that stood at his table three weeks ago. Leo gazes at him expectantly, a tightness in his chest because he _knows. _He _knows _that this is where the dream-things go. Even in the stark-white silence of the cold, he feels he needs to know.

He needs to know because he needs to accept it. He needs to realize where all his memories have gone.

Maybe he can find a way to shed the last of them. Maybe he can find a way to make this victory permanent.

Beside him, the boy makes an unsure noise and stares down at the floor, back to him again, takes a breath that moves out with his shoulders, then begins.

"They ring the gong to control you. It wipes your mind blank so all you think or do... everything you know about is just serving the Master. And they don't use it on just you guys. They threaten us too. But it's different with you." Nick squints in the dim light as if studying him intensely. "At least I think so, anyways."

"It is because you are not one of us," Jiro adds sagely from his darkened corner and Slader throws him a grunt of disapproval. "Not only are you not human, you are not one of _us. _One of the Clan."

The man's words cut through him like a knife, and Leo feels his insides swelling with indignant rage. _Insult. _It had to be an insult. His hands wind into fists with his pounding heart, clenched jaw. He opens his mouth to hiss his anger, his disbelief at this bastard's _gall_.

Not one of the Clan? Heresy!

But in an instant, the moment was killed with the opening of the lacquer doors. Leo flinches and his vision clears again.

_Cleansing breath. December morning._

And Shiryou beckons them inside.

* * *

It's a familiar situation. All too familiar. Leo kneels, one among the four at the Master's feet, his fingernails digging into his thighs. But he bows his head and keeps his eyes downcast. He will not challenge the Shredder this time. Never again.

The curtains flutter softly before being swept aside, the Master gliding over the the platform, hands folded neatly behind him with a hard scowl on his face. His eyes do not linger on any one ninja. They wait for their orders for what feels like centuries.

Leo's heart is still pounding in his chest, even as he struggles to quiet it, a mad throbbing in his temples. But he's been on these missions. He knows that tonight, he will be facing his death for a second time.

But despite the fear, he accepts it. In his mind, he has nothing left to lose.

"Tonight you will be retrieving an artifact from the storage facilities beneath the Museum of Natural Science," the Master begins. "It is an ancient sword that holds great value to me. The ninja who places it before my feet by sunrise will be named squadron leader. Do you understand your mission?"

A chorus of "Hai."

"But," he continues sharply, "there is one important factor. Under no circumstances is anyone to touch it. Do_ not_ remove it from its case. Failure to obey will result in a fate most severe. _No exceptions_."

"Hai!"

The Master's eyes turn to the gong, and Leonardo feels the air around him thicken as he steps down from the platform. He feels Nick shifting somewhere to the left, and Slader's eager anxiety flows from his breathing. Jiro is silent and unmoving.

The Master pauses at the gong, staring up its length. Then he turns.

"And remember, my ninja. There are fates far worse than death."

The gong shudders as it is stricken. First, Leonardo can see the waves of sound barreling towards him like an avalanche. When it hits he feels himself pulled into the icy folds, crushed beneath its power, swept along its raging path like a rag doll. He fights for the surface with a frozen body. Realization has flickered warmth into his mind.

He sees a burning cityscape through a paper-thin layer of snow. And then, like a candle wrenched into the storm, the flame is torn from him. The city sleeps, and he is dragged under.

* * *

_A/N: (Willowfly) So we're FINALLY back again for the time being. Though it certainly took us long enough_._ Seems like our two week hiatus turned into a couple months O.O;_

_For the record... I blame Angel. It's all her fault for not taking me to Hawaii with her. _

_Anyways, hope you guys have a happy holidays. Also, I wanted to put it out there that the TMNT Fanfiction Competition will be starting up January 1st on Stealthy Stories and a few other sites. And this year I'm host! So keep a lookout for upcoming news and I hope you'll all participate!_

_Much Love,_

_Willowfly_

_(Angelfeatherwriter) Shut up, Ash._

_(Willowfly) *finger*_

_(Angelfeatherwriter) :P  
_


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